


The Flower and The Wolf

by Fluxx



Series: Wilt [2]
Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bath Sex, Blow Jobs, Body Worship, Choking, Contracts, Cumshots, Demons, Finger Sucking, Geraskier Week, Implied/Referenced Dubious Consent, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Incubus Jaskier | Dandelion, Licking, M/M, Masturbation, Mutual Masturbation, Switching, To Be Continued
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-24
Updated: 2020-12-20
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:00:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 21,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22871395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fluxx/pseuds/Fluxx
Summary: It's been weeks since Geralt learned of Jaskier's fate, and in doing so formed a cursed contract. Despite his every effort, nothing appears to have cured his friend, nor freed him of the contract, and forcing Geralt to accept this may be a problem he can't fix. If that's the case, you know what they say: if you can't beat 'em... fuck 'em?[-soundtrack-]Track#Fluxx Ficsontumblrfor more fics!Author's Note: This is planned to be an open fic, to which I may occasionally add more chapters exploring this particular context. While all scenes will be consensual, I feel it's important to note that this particular version of incubi involves an inherent degree of dubcon due to deception, and conversations between the characters will likely include allusions to noncon as it relates to their developments. Any chapters which delve too far into these themes will be clearly noted with an [NC] tag in the chapter title.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Wilt [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1643989
Comments: 30
Kudos: 102
Collections: Interesting Character and/or Interesting Relationship Development





	1. Hello, Geralt

Geralt breathed deep, eyes shut tight. The final vestiges of doubt squirreled about his mind, resorting to whatever scraps of hope they could find.

_Don’t give up. There must be a way. Who else will find it, if not for you?_

Their words fell on ears driven to deafness by ten too many failures. He was a Witcher. Purging the world of monsters, saving people from their grips, was _what he did_. It was his responsibility, his obligation… But no longer was it his Desire.

He clenched his teeth and gripped the blade waiting in his palm. His eyes flashed open. He yanked his dagger, drawing a clean slice across his flesh.

_Ezekiel!_

The curtains rustled. Birdsong decorated the shuffling of leaves. The midday sun bathed the room in warm, comforting light.

“Hello, my Sweet Witcher.”

A shudder disturbed Geralt’s precarious still. Those tiny voices shattered in final defeat. He swallowed his pulse, racing at the knowledge of what future he’d cast upon himself.

“Hello, Jaskier.”

Even without looking, Geralt could feel the incubus’s displeasure. He sensed his slow, languid prowl around the bed, and knew from experience he was surveying the room. “No traps this time? No ancient relics, no burning candles?”

As the vision of Jaskier entered his field of view, Geralt at last looked up, stubbornly catching the impossibly beautiful man in his yellow eyes. “No.”

“Shame,” he boredly sighed, at last stopping in one corner of the room and folding his arms across his chest. He took one final glance across their surroundings. “I was starting to like them. Made things interesting. Really…” He grew quiet, contemplating his existential irony, then finished in a mutter filled with self-loathing, “…‘set the mood.’”

Geralt’s brow narrowed. His eyes struggled to remain focused upon Jaskier’s face, too eager to scan, weigh, measure the form before him in preparation for their inevitable clash. “I won’t fight you anymore, Jaskier.”

This summoned Jaskier’s gaze upon him, their sheen evoking a sense of tumbling through cornflower fields. Apparently, Geralt’s words had piqued his interest, a curious albeit suspicious brow slowly arching. He remained quiet a moment longer, contemplating the battle-hardened man seated before him, then threw a nonchalant gesture to the room. “And you chose _here_ to declare yourself?”

To that, Geralt shrugged, forcing himself to present as casually as possible - not that he’d think it’d help much, knowing full well by now the incubus could smell his darker truths. “Didn’t want Yen walking in on us.”

His words hit their mark, ire predictably rippling behind Jaskier’s handsome visage. He pursed his lips, then slowly turned a sinister smirk. Footsteps slowly drawing him closer, he let go the fold of his arms, letting his elegant hands sway to either side of his narrow hips. “Speaking of… How _is_ that little girl of yours doing? Ciri, was it?”

A hand closed around his neck. The wall slammed against his back. The point of a dagger pressed just below his upturned jaw. He snickered, sinisterly eying Geralt’s burning, yellow eyes. “Careful,” he purred, devilish fingertips spidering up the Witcher’s thin, delicate shirt. He breathed deep, and Geralt could feel the intensity of Jaskier’s presence ascend to new heights, feeding off Geralt’s own exhilaration. “Remember what happened the _last_ time you tried that…?”

Of course he did. What had begun with a silver sword through Jaskier’s chest had ended in a solid cock up Geralt’s ass. Nonetheless, the incubus’s words did him the “favor” of summoning that particular encounter to the forefront of his consciousness, and with it a violent flush across his face.

The effect pleased him - what was more, it empowered him. He pressed a single finger to the center of Geralt’s chest, and with that alone exerted enough strength to force Geralt a whole foot back. To his absolute delight, the single action took its toll upon the Witcher, binding him further within the clutches of Lust. Hunger danced through his eyes, manifesting as wisps of yellow licking the edges of their blue hues, and he stepped forward off the wall, inching Geralt back just a bit further with every slow, calculated advance. “If I didn’t know any better,” he whispered, melodic voice inspiring Geralt’s heart to dance, “I’d say you were doing this on purpose.”

Those eyes captivated Geralt, so much so that he hadn’t noticed how far he’d been pushed. The edge of the bed hit the back of his calves, and though it alone wasn’t enough to topple him it _was_ enough to destabilize him, leaving him vulnerable to the sudden shove of Jaskier’s hands against his shoulders. He crashed down upon the hay-packed mattress, an efforted grunt bursting passed his gritted teeth, and a moment later a pair of lean thighs bound by too-tight leather straddled his chest. His hands caught them, but before they could push Jaskier’s hand found the base of his neck, forcing him flat. The pressure upon his throat forced his lips to part, welcoming as much air as they could entice, and the edges of his vision began to glisten with gathering moisture. “I don’t… want to fight…” he managed between shallow breaths.

Jaskier’s expression narrowed. He leaned forward, adding more weight to his press of Geralt’s neck. His other hand drifted forth to let its gentle fingertips trickle along the side of Geralt’s face. His own head tilted, distantly considering the man beneath him like a child considering a flower just before plucking its petals. “…But nor will you roll over,” he purred, then knowingly bit his bottom lip and began rocking his hips subtly back and forth.

The leather shifted between Geralt’s hands and Jaskier’s thighs. Geralt’s fingers dug in to their holds, stilling the motion, then summoned a hungry smirk of his own. “Have to keep things interesting, don’t I?”

Jaskier’s eyes widened, but his realization came a flicker too late. Geralt’s foot had already found the bed’s frame, and with a practiced motion he used the newfound leverage to twist his body and send the other man toppling down. Immediately, Jaskier’s hands grasped for purchase - they ultimately just landed to either side of him upon the sheets as Geralt’s hands pulled in opposite directions, easily breaking the precarious seam holding Jaskier’s pants together. His yellow eyes fell upon the full growth his actions had summoned, and his hands abandoned the now useless shreds they gripped. Jaskier’s face lowered, chest propped up upon his elbows. His gaze alone goaded Geralt, daring him to prove his words - to dive head first into Lust of his own accord.

To the incubus’s mild surprise, the Witcher did just that. Slowly, still holding Jaskier’s eyes with his own, Geralt eased himself lower and lower. Jaskier’s scent consumed more of his senses with every slightest descent - not helped by the worsening effect his approach was having upon his fellow. As the distance between his cock and Geralt’s lips dwindled away, Jaskier’s hands dug into the sheets, and his chest rose and fell with anxious anticipation. He let his head tilt back, gazing down his nose at Geralt with an air of superiority. By the time Geralt grew close enough to breathe upon Jaskier’s flesh, heated breath beating down upon him, Jaskier’s length had taken to periodically twitching with need severe enough that with just one more closed inch—

“Ah!” gasped Jaskier’s voice, his body reflexively tensing as the soft, wet texture of Geralt’s tongue glanced the underside of his hood.

To his regret, the sound chased the tongue back behind Geralt’s grinning lips. “Something wrong?”

Jaskier’s knuckles had grown white from their clenching. His eyes locked upon those cruel, twisted lips. So focused was he on the succulent promise they hid that he didn’t realize how much desperation hung from his panting. “Don’t tease me…!”

“Hmm,” Geralt murmured in feigned consideration, his eyes finally breaking away from Jaskier’s face to crawl down his pent-up body. His troublesome tunic still clung to his torso, wrapping his lithe arms in delicate elegance - but he’d deal with that soon enough. For now, his hands had a more immediate target, their fingers creeping their way up along Jaskier’s thigh. Their travels coaxed a strained groan through Jaskier’s gritted teeth, a sound that melted into a low, drawn-out cry as at last Geralt opened his mouth anew and allowed his tongue to recover its treasure.

The tip of his tongue traced along Jaskier’s hood. With a skillful curl, he at last drew it past his teeth, brushing against the swollen head as it passed. Keeping his mouth nice and wide, he angled his head and began a further decent, and only after he’d captured half the shaft did he finally collapse his lips into a tight seal, wrapping it in moist warmth. Another needy utter escaped Jaskier’s throat, inspiring Geralt to preemptively press his flattened hands upon his pelvis. His eyes flickered up, and to his satisfaction Jaskier’s head had fallen back entirely, muscles tight from their failed attempts to buck his hips. “Damn it, Geralt!” he cried, still struggling beneath the Witcher’s anchor.

Geralt responded with needled out kindness, at long last drawing his lips up along Jaskier’s length. He waited until the hood tapped against the back of his teeth before sliding back down, from there easing into a slow and steady rhythm. He measured his success from the strangled sounds infecting Jaskier’s voice, at once delighted for the attention and frustrated from wanting just a bit more. Geralt appeased him, but on his own terms, and at his own pace just a little further, just a little faster, and with just a little more suction. His tongue meanwhile traced the full underside of Jaskier’s cock, finding and flicking against veins bulged by coursing blood. By the time Geralt at last reached a pace and intensity that matched the beat of Jaskier’s heart, not but pure pleasure danced upon his vocal chords. Geralt let his eyes slip shut, let the sound fill his head - never before had he thought he’d enjoy _this_ kind of song from the bard, nor this much, and he was content to simply bask in it.

“Geralt… Geralt… !” Jaskier crooned, each call more desperate than the last. Geralt dropped open his jaw, and suddenly his descent strayed much further than any before, shoving Jaskier’s tip up against the back of his throat. “ _Geralt_!” he practically screamed, one hand trading the sheets for a fistful of messy, stormcloud hair. He pulled, and Geralt allowed Jaskier’s flesh to pop out from his mouth and drift against his clothes as he was brought back up and over Jaskier’s still-panting body. He gazed down with a triumphant smirk at the sweat decorating Jaskier’s flushed face, and even more so at the clawing hands that were eagerly searching out his waistband. Jaskier’s eyes rested upon his for a brief and fleeting moment, then closed as his face lifted to capture Geralt’s lips in his own, tongue diving past to seek out whatever traces of precum remained inside. For a moment he revelled in the plunder, but as his fingertips finally wrestled Geralt’s ass free of his slacks he broke away just enough to whisper against Geralt’s lips.

“Not there.”

He smirked. Having fed upon Geralt’s arousal, he took advantage of the Witcher’s fleeting preoccupation and flipped them over, his hands latching on to Geralt’s hips with newfound strength and forcing him down upon the bed. “Hey!” Geralt growled, head falling back upon the sheets. He made to fight back, but his companion had calculatedly lowered his pants only to the bend of his knees, his hand grabbing the middle and using it to prop back Geralt’s legs.

“Ah-ah-ah!” came Jaskier’s taunting sing-song, his other hand sinking two fingertips along his tongue. He let them extract a glob of hot saliva, then drop down to draw their moistened fingernails down along Geralt’s shaft. As he traced a thin, wet line down its underside, Geralt throbbed, and ultimately jerked when he felt Jaskier’s fingers lay his spit along the base of his balls. The saliva lingered ever briefly before shivering down the short crevice between it and Geralt’s tense pucker, encouraged along by dancing fingertips. He lowered just enough to catch Geralt’s flushed face through the gap between his legs - from here, he could press one fingertip against Geralt’s clenched hole and watch his expression morph as moisture began to seep inside.

“D… Damn it…!” Geralt grunted. By then, the air had cooled the substance, and its relative chill against his warm innards shot trembles through his suspended legs. Still, he refused to back down from Jaskier’s challenging stare, holding that taunting, knowing smile even as he felt that slick digit press harder and harder against him.

At last, with the saliva’s slickening aid, Jaskier’s finger penetrated through, sinking deep inside Geralt all the way to the base in a single, smooth motion. “Augh!” Geralt cried, more from the sudden infiltration than any discomfort. By now, his ass was _plenty_ well-acquainted with Jaskier’s fingers, but this time was different. The glide of Jaskier’s digits in and out along his tract was always somewhat inevitable, but never had it been quite so… _needed_. For today’s dance, Geralt’s tension came more from knowing anticipation than resistance, and when at last Jaskier’s finger claimed its due he felt waves of relief, even _excitement_ pulsing through him - doubly so when the second moistened digit nestled in against its fellow and shoved its way through to join in on the next dive.

Another pleasured grunt burst out, and as Jaskier’s fingers continued coaxing his hole wider and wider his chest began to rise and fall faster and faster. Belatedly, he realized his rapid breathing had failed to remain silent, and his cheeks took on a rosy tint at the lewd inflection upon his every breath. “You approve, then?” Jaskier’s voice purred, just before planting a fleeting kiss to one of his raised calves.

“Fuck,” Geralt groaned, realizing all too late his unforunate word choice.

A fire lit in Jaskier’s eyes, a golden yellow tint starting to lick their edges. “If you say so,” he chuckled, Geralt’s body shuddering around his fingers as they slipped out for the last time. He watched the way Geralt’s eyes widened, locked upon his fingers as he wrapped them around his member and gave it a few preparatory strokes. To his detached curiosity, Geralt seemed to have achieved a sort of tense, precarious still, like he was gazing off the edge of a great cliff. It was unlike any look he could remember seeing since the start of their cursed accord, watching Jaskier’s every movement with his unique brand of silent beckoning. Hell, even his hands had moved to gently aid the lift of his legs, though he imagined Geralt was hardly aware he’d done it.

_Is it possible… he really_ **_does_ ** _want this… ?_

He lowered the tip of his cock, lining it up against Geralt’s ass. His hand held himself steady as he began to lean forward - his other hand let go of Geralt’s pants to instead wrap along his hip, lending himself more control of the steadily increasing pressure. To his delight, Geralt’s teeth began to grip, and another urgent curse slipped out under his breath. “D-Damn it, Jaskier… H…” Geralt stopped just short of saying it aloud, too proud to give voice to this carnal feeling brewing inside him.

But it was enough. Jaskier’s fingertips dug into Geralt’s side, and with his companion held steady applied the last bit of pressure needed to at last penetrate through. For the first time, their mouths dropped open and sang their pleasures as one beautiful cry, Geralt’s lower groaning anchoring Jaskier’s sweeter sigh. Relieved of its hold, Jaskier’s hand found Geralt’s other hip, joining its fellow in a firm and commanding grip to keep Geralt’s ass and lower back supported upon Jaskier’s thighs. Together they held Geralt still so Jaskier’s length could sink deeper and deeper within his tight, clinging warmth, until at last Jaskier’s pelvis had run up against Geralt’s rounded flesh.

Both incubus and Witcher paused, taking a moment to adjust, their chests heaving with anxious breath. Jaskier’s eyes began to haze, drunk on Geralt’s lust - so much so that they hadn’t noticed one of Geralt’s hands move from its hold of his leg. They found it reaching up behind Geralt’s head, dipped over the opposite edge of the bed, and soon widened with panic.

_A dagger?! It_ **_was_ ** _a trap! Of course it was - he’d NEVER—_

A glint of light caught the blade’s swipe. Jaskier’s body instinctively winced, bracing for the impending sting of silver. Fabric sheared before him, and as Geralt’s severed pants fell apart they revealed his snarling face. His hand tossed the dagger negligently aside, the other catching the incubus by surprise as it suddenly shot behind Jaskier’s head and grabbed a greedy handful of hair. Jaskier’s voice could do nothing but gawk as Geralt yanked him down, their faces close enough for him to drink Geralt’s breath.

“What are you waiting for?!”

Fresh need blossomed throughout Jaskier’s body. He closed that last pesky inch between their lips, stealing another deep kiss as his hips began their expert maneuvering. Held up mostly by the hand still gripping his hair, Jaskier’s hands were free to swiftly flit down the front of his blouse and release its fastenings with a few quick flicks. His arms shrugged it off with fluid grace, tossing the garment aside to drape upon Geralt’s dagger, and finally he pushed out of the kiss to gaze upon his Witcher. He caught the subtle flicker of Geralt’s eyes, noting their inability to stray from Jaskier’s revealed muscles for too long. Their doting, captivated stare fueled him - animalistic instinct took over, mouth falling agape and eyes drifting behind fluttering lids. His hands restabilized himself with harsh clutches of Geralt’s shirt. After all these years, his hips knew full well what to do - how far to pull without escaping, how fast to move without rending, how hard to thrust back in for a perfect dance along that thin line between pain and pleasure. They proved it, too, their steady, commanding rocking beating out a driving rhythm that sent ecstasy shivering through Geralt in increasingly severe waves. Geralt tried his best to keep his burning eyes upon Jaskier’s delirious face, but it soon became a struggle, his own head threatening to loll back and lose himself in the consuming passion. With it grinding back and forth along against his ass’s cling, he could feel Jaskier’s shaft begin to throb - inspired by that tell, his free hand darted to Jaskier’s back and dug in its nails, inspiring a sudden burst of vigor.

“Do it,” he growled, both hands tightening their respective holds.

Jaskier’s face twisted, chasing that final high that lingered just out of reach. His hands moved to either side of Geralt’s muscled neck and squeezed. “Sh… Shut…!”

“ _Do it_!” Geralt goaded once more, loud enough to overpower his own panting.

It proved just the additional push his lover needed. Jaskier’s eyes slipped shut, his hips raced faster, and his mouth dropped open to let loose a final, victorious cry. “ _Geralt!!!_ ”

A burst of moisture filled Geralt’s tract, slopping around Jaskier’s mindless, crowning thrusts. Geralt could feel it push out with every additional plunge, only to refill with another coaxed spill. As he emptied himself, Jaskier’s hands lost their hold, and his heaving chest lost its poise.

But Geralt’s blood still coursed hot through his body. He smirked hungrily up into the cornflower eyes that struggled to remain open.

“My turn.”

Still swimming in desire, Jaskier’s body posed not the slightest resistance as Geralt made quick work of pulling him out and forcing his head down upon the bed. “G-Geralt…!” came Jaskier’s moan, hands swiftly seeking grips of the tousled sheet and eyes surrendering themselves shut. With Geralt’s aid, his knees planted into the bed, offering up a more than just reward for the Witcher.

One of Geralt’s hands splayed upon Jaskier’s lower back, the other tormenting him with a few strokes to collect the cum still drenching his softening cock. Each one issued out a pleasured jerk and feeble squirt, and Geralt couldn’t help but lick his lips at the lewd display. He quickly moistened himself with Jaskier’s cum, then wiped the rest upon his presented pucker - a thick, invading finger made sure some got inside, twisting around to coat its full circumference.

“Ah!” uttered Jaskier’s voice, hips bucking beneath Geralt’s hand.

Geralt chuckled down at him, stealing another moment of slowly fingering Jaskier’s ass. “Are you sure you’re ready?”

Jaskier’s hands tightened, and his brow furrowed. “Please…”

“Hmm,” Geralt murmured, his finger slowly resurfacing from its excavation. His hand moved to line himself up, head tilting in feigned consideration. “I don’t recall you being this polite before?”

“Ger— _AAH!_ ”

Incubus or not, taking Geralt’s girth proved a challenging feat, one that glistened the corners of Jaskier’s clenched eyes with needy tears. Instinctively, his head made to look back at Geralt - Geralt swiftly put a stop to it with a hand shoved upon his head and in turn sinking an additional inch. In a show of dominance, he pulled back after having given hardly a third his potential. Jaskier’s hips shifted, trying their damnedest to reclaim it, but it was a futile fight against Geralt’s anchoring hold, one that curled Geralt’s lips into a wicked smile.

“You’re… too tight…” Geralt teased between steady breaths, his hood threatening to escape, only to then switch directions and reward Jaskier’s trembling form with another descent.

“No,” Jaskier whimpered. One of his hands moved from beside his head to fish out his cock. “No, I… I’m not…!”

An efforted grunt spilled out of Geralt, pushing passed the halfway point of his shaft. Again, he rescinded, drawing himself out with a painfully slow motion. “I… need to take… my time…”

Unable to affect his position, Jaskier’s body could do little more than writhe beneath Geralt’s grips, hoping it’d entice another glorious plunge. “No… you _don’t_ …!” he begged. His hand took to stroking, grateful for the lubrication provided by his own cum. “ _Please_ , Geralt!”

The urgent sound of his name upon Jaskier’s melodious voice sent shivers down Geralt’s spine. “Mmm,” he purred, and suddenly his hands gripped harder, and Jaskier’s body braced itself. “I guess… there’s really only… one way to find out…” He held his hips still just a moment longer, letting the anticipation build until Jaskier’s mouth opened again - whatever he’d been about to say was immediately overrun by a loud cry as suddenly, without preamble, Geralt’s hips slammed forward, stuffing his full, hard member passed Jaskier’s clench. Jaskier’s stroking immediately grew more fervent. Geralt spent only a fleeting moment fully buried before treating Jaskier’s ass to his own brand of thorough pounding. With its uneven rhythm, it fostered an air of uncertainty that kept him on edge, never quite sure when he’d receive his next gift. With its strength, it constantly challenged his limits, and in turn instilled the desperate hope they’d be stretched ever further and further. With its girth, he could feel every slightest shift in motion or position, and through it tried to detect just how close Geralt was to finally releasing.

Of course, that remained a particularly difficult feat - the Witcher claimed far more endurance than any man rightfully should. In this new life of his, he’d grown quite familiar with the precise limits of humans. The knowledge that they’d already blown well past it exhilarated his every desperate moan, pleased beyond expression with every further throb that sank through him. For Geralt? It meant that Jaskier’s voice was slowly drifting into incoherence, and as his mind abandoned itself to pleasure infernal words began to slip from his lolling tongue. Geralt’s eyes widened as hazey images started floating through his mind, some hardly impressioned thoughts and others as bright and brilliant as a masterwork painting. A consistent theme ran through all of them: Jaskier, in varying severities of duress, sweat-licked and writhing, screaming and begging his name. The arousal brought by the lewd scenes parted Geralt’s lips for a thirsty gasp, the fleeting prelude to clenching hands and speeding hips. He felt his sack tighten, and his whole body felt like some thin, futile membrane was about to break.

“JASKIER!!!”

Geralt’s belting voice threw his companion off the ledge, right alongside him. Geralt pulled his bursting cock out and held it down upon the crest of Jaskier’s ass - a line of cum was already leaking out his gaping hole, but there was still _plenty_ left to shoot out in thick ropes up Jaskier’s back. Below, Jaskier’s hand had summoned forth another spurting of his own, the sheets below taking on betraying splotches of moistened darkness. Most of Geralt’s cum pooled long Jaskier’s spine, slipping down to where his hand was still holding Jaskier’s neck, but some of it escaped in slow rolls over either side. He rubbed himself gently between his thumb and Jaskier’s lower back, and by the time he’d let loose everything he had there was enough that it began dripping off Jaskier’s ribs and mixing with his second release. The sight gave Geralt one final, pleased shudder.

With an exhausted sigh, Geralt finally released Jaskier’s neck. As the last of his exhilaration ran its course through his spasming muscles, his adrenaline faded, and with it his strength. He swayed slightly, then let himself collapse upon the bed with enough force the frame creaked in protest. His chest heaved, and his eyes grew heavy. His head rolled to the side, and to his intrigue he felt his face distantly smile at the sight beside him.

Jaskier’s face smiled back at him. Both men’s cum still drenched his chest, more so now that he’d rolled upon the mattress, but this fact appeared to sooner content than discomfort him. His land lazily drifted up, fingertips drifting along Geralt’s spared shirt, and delicately drew aside the few strands of sweat-caked hair strewn across Geralt’s face. He saw the way his touch eased the lingering stress from the edges of Geralt’s face, replacing it with a quiet peace. He leaned forward, and with a kiss to Geralt’s forehead and a warm whisper to his ear blanketed him in sleep.

“Rest well, my dear Geralt.”

* * *

The sun had just begun to warm the earth when next Geralt stirred. To his curiosity, he wasn’t where he’d remembered being. Muscles still heavy with tire, he pushed himself into an upright sit and leaned back against the headboard. He frowned, arms resting atop the blanket covering his lower half, and studied the further half of the bed, covered in dried filth whose strong scent dashed any doubts as to its nature. His cheeks grew hot from the memory, and he turned to instead regard the window.

He blinked, taken by rare surprise.

“You’re still here?” he called to the man leaning against the window.

Jaskier’s folded arms shrugged, but even as he replied his eyes continued staring through the waking forest. “You brought us to a random, unsecured shack in the middle of nowhere and promptly worked yourself into a three-day coma. _Of course_ I’m still here.” He felt Geralt’s sharp glare, then finally broke away from the outside world long enough to pass him a smirk. “Fine. One day.”

Geralt rolled his eyes, then swung his legs out of bed. Rather abruptly, he remembered he’d shorn his pants in two - both halves had been removed and neatly folded in a pile beside the wall. He narrowed his eyes at it, then looked over his shoulder to the incubus.

The _fully dressed_ incubus.

He grabbed the sheet as he stood and jabbed an accusing finger in the demon’s direction. “I distinctly remember tearing that.”

A momentary confusion passed over Jaskier’s features. Just as darkness swept over it, Jaskier’s face whipped back towards the window, hiding in a return to his staring. “Sorry,” he softly offered. It was probably the simplest thing Geralt had ever heard Jaskier say, and in that knew it was a somehow painful subject he didn’t want to linger on.

Geralt granted him that wish, idly wrapping the sheet around his waist as he made his way round the bed. He looked out the window, listening to the many sounds that colored the world, every one of them amplified for his “convenience.” Woven among the rustling leaves, the chirping birds, the skittering creatures, something more guttural and agonizing disturbed the otherwise beautiful soundscape. Geralt pursed his lips, then turned a curious eye upon his companion. “…You hear them now, too?”

“I—” he began, then suddenly broke off, turning his face further from Geralt so he couldn’t see the complicated emotions brewing in his eyes. He could hear it plenty well enough, though, in the single further word he whispered. “Yes.”

Even as socially inept as he was, Geralt could tell something haunted him. He frowned, unsure just what to do or say, where to even begin. At the very least, he imagined it was still too early, both literally and figuratively, for pushing drawn lines. Instead, he turned around and leaned against the wall, opposite the other man. With a fold of his own arms, he asked, as much to himself as to the other, “So what happens now?”

A weary sigh met his question, Jaskier’s eyes slipping shut. “What do you mean?”

“What do you think I mean?” Geralt growled back. “Come on, Jaskier. It used to be I couldn’t get you to shut up, and now you barely say a word to me?”

_That_ got Jaskier’s eyes to flash back upon him, but though Geralt had expected his words to piss him off he instead saw only… fear? “Sorry!” came Jaskier’s whimper, an odd glisten in his cornflower hues. He hesitated, the fear shifting into sorrow, and his eyes fell to stare at the space between them. “I’m ‘Ezekiel’ now.”

The lethargic melancholy had begun to grate. “I’m not calling you that,” Geralt firmly asserted. “Your name is Jaskier, so that’s what I’ll call you.”

Jaskier’s brow lifted - the irritation taking hold came as an odd sort of relief beside his moping. “You’ve called me ‘Ezekiel’ ten times in the last month. Pardon the lack of faith, but I rather doubt that’s going to stop.”

Color tained Geralt’s cheeks, clearly remembering each and every one of those instances even without the benefit of Jaskier’s infernal speech. “That’s just a word I have to say to see you. To see _Jaskier_.”

“And there you have it,” Jaskier’s voice lamented. He gestured to himself, and then to Geralt. “I am your invocation, and you are my deluded fool.”

“Jask—” Geralt began, but another unnatural roar sounded, drawing his fierce, yellow eyes back through the window. He grit his teeth and clenched the sheet he held around his waist.

Beside him, Jaskier’s eyes hesitantly inched back up at him, studying his reaction and drawing the necessary conclusions. He glanced out the window, and by the time Geralt looked back at him Jaskier’s features had taken on a sickened visage.

“…I’ll take care of it.”

Geralt frowned, instinctively reaching out to grab Jaskier’s arm. “What? Don’t be rid—”

Suddenly, his hand grasped nothing. Startled, he looked down at Jaskier’s body, watching it steadily collapse into a familiar, yellow hue. By the time his eyes returned to Jaskier’s, their cornflower blue had fully traded for yellow, and Geralt felt as though he were staring into a mirror. It was jarring enough that his muscles froze, and he could offer no protest as Jaskier’s voice repeated, hung with sinister foreboding, “ _I’ll take care of it._ ”

As the last of Jaskier’s image collapsed into yellow smoke, Geralt could do nothing but watch it disperse, then move to face the window and frantically search beyond for any trace of its path. He saw nothing, but heard the snarling and tromping in the distance until, all at once, it suddenly stopped. For a moment, the world seemed to hold its breath - Geralt included. When new sounds surfaced, they were faint, too much so for Geralt to rightly identify them. As they grew, they took form, and Geralt could perceive short, guttural squawks. They gradually took a curious inflection he couldn’t recall hearing before… and then it all grew worse, a cacophony of shrieks, grunts, and croons he had _never_ wanted to hear. He staggered back, both hands clamping upon his ears, but could not stop himself from staring, mortified, through the window.

Jaskier didn’t return after that. Geralt had lingered as long as he could stand, but would eventually depart the shack with crudely-repaired slacks. A whole fortnight passed before Geralt saw him again, blood dripping in thin lines down his fingertips. Once more, the air turned, and one more Geralt’s heart raced in his chest - but this time, he faced the yellow smoke as it gathered, building once more into the memory of a man he’d come to cherish all too late, cornflower eyes trembling with darkness.

“Hello, Geralt.”

“Hello, Jaskier.”


	2. Sing, My Songbird

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Chapter-specific tags:_
> 
>   * _Body Worship_
>   * _Licking_
>   * _Sucking_
> 


The sun had long since set, the room lit by only a single candelabra sequestered away in one corner. Outside, the night was cool and refreshing. A gentle breeze tickled the treetops. The occasional hoot of an owl or chittering of a badger gave life to the nocturnal kingdom while all else slept. In other words, a rare, precarious peace blanketed the world, one distinctly devoid of The Continent’s usual amalgam of horrors.

Jaskier looked sick as he stared out the window, with somehow still reason enough to be mournful. “I assume this is your doing?” he sighed, his guilt heavy in his voice.

“It’s what I do, Jaskier,” Geralt pointed out, as though he hadn’t specifically gone out and cleared the forest prior to summoning his incubus.

“Mmm,” Jaskier murmured, then shrugged. “Well, I can’t pay you right now, but I’m good for it. Shouldn’t be hard to persuade a royal or two—”

“That’s not necessary,” Geralt quickly inisted.

Jaskier turned a raised brow in his direction. “Goodness, Geralt. I know I’ve picked up quite a bit of experience, but I didn’t think I was _that_ good a lay.”

Geralt’s eyes widened atop flushed cheeks. “That’s not what I meant!” He hesitated, eyes flickering over Jaskier, unable to deny the hunger starting to creep in. “And - don’t sell yourself short.” Before Jaskier could continue the topic any further, he turned around to pull open the closet door. “Anyway, I got you something.”

“You shouldn’t have,” Jaskier scoffed, drifting towards him mostly out of idleness. But then, he realized Geralt wasn’t kidding, as the Witcher soon extracted a mid-sized wooden box. He immediately frowned. “I’m serious. It’s not like I can take it anywhere.”

“So leave it here,” Geralt countered, effortlessly carrying the box over to the bed. He gingerly placed it at the foot, his manner hinting at the delicate nature of its contents. “No one else uses this old shack anyhow.”

As Geralt stood and backed off, encouraging Jaskier towards the box with the sweep of his hands, Jaskier eyed him suspiciously. “What are you up to, Geralt?” he sighed. “Presents? Home ownership?”

“Shack ownership,” the Witcher corrected. “Gods, just open the gift, won’t you?”

Jaskier rolled his eyes, but didn’t offer any further protest. At this point, it’d just further delay their evening’s inevitability anyhow, so he may as well just go along with it. Certainly, if Gabriel’s tales were to be believed, he’d heard of cubi humoring far more superfluous whims during such encounters. He knelt by the box’s side and reached for the thin rope holding it shut.

A sharp _scritch scritch_ disturbed their quiet. Geralt frowned, watching Jaskier’s hands. “I didn’t know you carried a knife on you.”

Jaskier paused and looked up at him, and soon a conflicted look altered his expression. Awkwardly, he returned to the rope beneath his hands and softly replied, “Your mind… Gabriel says it’s ‘making sense of what it refuses to see.’ I don’t really know what he means by that, but…” His hand departed the rope to briefly gesture at himself before resuming its work. “That’s why you see this, and not… Well, anyway. That’s why.”

Despite a fresh crop of new questions, Geralt let it be. Obviously, the matter still bothered Jaskier. He winced inwardly - if that were the case, he imagined he was in for a rather difficult evening.

Sure enough, things already started turning that way when Jaskier at last undid the rope and eased the lid off his box. He tilted open, peering curiously inside… Then gently settled it back down, face turning down and away from Geralt beside a slump of his shoulders. In the pause that followed, Geralt could tell his friend was struggling to navigate a field of emotions. By the time he finally spoke, they still pulled his voice taught, threatening to crack at any moment. “Why are you giving me this, Geralt?”

Geralt sloppily avoided the question. “You don’t like it?”

Jaskier’s head tilted further inward, and his hands gripped the edges of the box. “It’s not a matter of liking it, and you _know_ that.”

“No, actually, I _don’t_ know that,” Geralt insisted, arms folding indignantly across his chest, “because you won’t _talk_ to me. If you won’t let me understand, how can I help you?”

“You _can’t_ help me, Geralt!” Jaskier snapped, suddenly whipping his head around to face him. The expression he wore took Geralt aback - he’d anticipated the incubus would be upset with him, but more than anger he saw pain. Distress pulled Jaskier’s face tight, and tears glistened in the corners of his eyes. “I told you when all this began - you’re _too late_ for that!”

The echo of their fateful re-meeting blew the dormant embers of Geralt’s resentment. Certainly, that night had not gone the way he’d hoped it would, and he couldn’t rightly say the time since hadn’t been without its further, far worsening slights. He took a breath, forcing himself to contain that rage - they had all the time in the world to address it. The bulk of their time in this cursed “contract” had proven well enough he couldn’t force it on his own, and so he had to start with getting Jaskier back to a workable state. “Fine,” he replied, and a part of him delighted in the surprise it lighted on Jaskier’s face. He presented his left hand, the palm still bloodied from the cut that had summoned Jaskier to his side. “Then at least tell me what it is you’ve saddled me with. Why is it that I’m presented with ‘Jaskier’ - that I see, hear, _feel_ ‘Jaskier’ - and yet you insist you’re not him? You tell me you’re ‘Ezekiel’ now. What the hell does that mean?!”

Before Geralt’s eyes, Jaskier crumpled, his gaze falling to the wayside, and Geralt couldn’t help but feel a sharp twinge of guilt. He seemed distant, heavy-lidded eyes staring into something unseen, as he offered his soft reply. “What do you see? Describe it to me.”

Geralt frowned. The request confused him, but it felt like progress, no matter how slight, so he tilted his head and carefully studied the man before him. “Well,” he sighed, deciding where to start, “you look… much the same as…” He hesitated, chest growing tight with another pang of guilt. “…that day on the mountainside. You’re wearing that same red jacket with the matching high-waisted pants.” He blinked, just now noticing a curious detail, certain neither how he’d missed it nor how he could possibly notice it. “But it… fits better. And the tunic’s…” He swallowed, composing himself as he felt his heart begin to race. “You’ve got it unbuttoned lower. I can see more of your chest hair.” He chuckled, mostly to try and dissipate the tug starting to pull at his gut. “Still a bit wispy, but there nonetheless.” He forced his eyes upwards, slowly scaling the elegant slope of Jaskier’s neck. “Your skin is fair, with just a bit of sun to it but no redness. Your face is clean-shaven, with high cheekbones and a smooth, even nose. You’ve let your dark hair grow out a bit - to be frank, I’m not sure how you manage to keep it out of your eyes.”

To his relief, as he described the handsome albeit withdrawn man before him, he saw Jaskier’s lips subtly twitch, threatening at the tiniest smile. “Yeah,” he murmured, subconsciously nodding his head. “That sounds about right. I’d have guessed you’d prefer longer hair.”

Geralt half-laughed. “What do you know of what I ‘prefer’?”

For the moment, Jaskier ignored him, turning to somberly stare at his hand. “Do you still see the knife?”

“Of course I—” But he abruptly cut off as soon as he looked.

Jaskier’s hand was empty. He sighed, understanding the silence and shaking his head. “I never saw it. And I haven’t seen any of _that_ since the day I died,” he muttered, gesturing to himself.

Whether from curiosity or some subconscious _need_ to be closer to Jaskier, Geralt moved to sit upon the foot of the bed, where he could lean in close with his arms propped upon his knees. “How can that be, Jaskier? What _do_ you see?”

Jaskier scoffed. “Everything you described is J—” His voice choked off, and his whole body cringed in pain. Geralt reflexively moved to comfort him, but Jaskier stayed him with a raised hand. “…Is _him_. But when he died, Ezekiel was born in his place. And if I told you what Ezekiel _really_ looked like…” His eyes began to waver again, but finally he lifted his face to meet Geralt’s gaze, and his expression was so desperate Geralt nearly pounced on him right then and there. It was only by the grace of their grim subject of conversation that Geralt was able to refrain. “Your mind is lying to you so you don’t have to acknowledge the truth.”

“Hmm,” Geralt murmured, turning Jaskier’s words over in his head. “But your soul is the same, isn’t it?”

Jaskier winced, then averted his gaze to glower at the floor.

Geralt sighed. _Too far, then._ As he slowly looked Jaskier over, contemplating how to best put this meager progress to use, an idea began to surface. Perhaps it was simply born of the steadily thickening aura permeating the room - certainly, Geralt had noticed its effect on him pointedly increase the minute he sat so close to Jaskier. Nonetheless, it seemed to make enough sense… From what little Geralt could tell, Jaskier was trapped in a world of broken perceptions, his cage forged from the warping of one sense in particular. However, Geralt further knew that a particular _other_ sense remained perfectly intact, or at least assumed as much. He felt certain it would have to - it was, after all, a rather vital part of being a sex-feeding demon.

Abruptly, Geralt stood up and turned away, fingers hastily working the strings of his tunic as he walked towards the dresser. “Get on the bed.”

Jaskier looked up with an indignant scowl. “Really? Bit of a sharp turn there, isn’t it?”

Geralt’s broad arms pulled his shirt off his torso, then set about folding it neatly atop the dresser. He cast a lifted brow over his shoulder. “You’re stuck here until we fuck, right?”

“Yes,” Jaskier glowered, eyes narrowing into a glare - he could tell Geralt was taking his sweet time with his clothes. “I wouldn’t let it go _too_ long, though. I get rather…” He shifted uncomfortably. “Crude,” he eventually settled on.

“I know, I know,” Geralt waved him off. He tunic delicately placed, his hands moved to the fastenings of his pants, and the next time he checked on Jaskier it was with a glare. “I said get on the bed!” A stray thought occurred to him, and he tacked on before returning his attention to his pants, “And don’t forget to strip.”

Jaskier rolled his eyes, but obliged, pulling himself up to a stand so he could unceremoniously drop himself back upon the bed with a heavy _thump_. “I’m more than just a sex toy, you know,” he lamented to the ceiling. “I mean I know it’s pretty much my one and only purpose nowadays, but I _do_ still have feelings. I like to be courted, not just—” He broke off when he noticed Geralt take a seat at the foot of the bed, pantsless but still very much contained in a thin pair of greyed drawers. He frowned suspiciously. “What are you doing?”

“Courting,” Geralt mused, shifting upon the bed to face Jaskier. As he’d directed, Jaskier now laid completely bare before him - he suspected that was more to do with the whole “mind is lying to you” thing and less to do with any obedience on Jaskier’s part. He folded one leg before him, his other still hanging off the edge, then reached down to gently take Jaskier’s feet into his calloused hands. He placed them upon his half-lap and began to rub their tops, his fingers slowly tracing the thin veins and ligaments hiding just beneath the skin. “You can feel this, right?”

Jaskier swallowed, his body already subconsciously fidgeting as the warmth of Geralt’s fingertips drifted along his feet. “Y-Yes,” he managed, unable to keep a slight inflection from his voice as the feeling drifted down along his ankles. “Of course I can.”

“Good,” Geralt replied, his tone plain and simple to mask his aim. His gleaming yellow eyes watched Jaskier with a detached curiosity, intrigued by the new dynamic he’d introduced between them. In a total flip from their first days together, he was the one tending to Jaskier for no reason other than to comfort him. It brought a sort of cosmic amusement to the old Witcher, one soon dampened when he realized Jaskier was staring at his feet, a sort of existential terror creeping along the edges of his demeanor. “Close your eyes,” he instructed, voice dropping to a gentle, coaxing murmur.

Jaskier blinked out of his dilemma to instead stare confusedly at Geralt. “What?”

“You heard me.”

His hands had moved to cup Jaskier’s heels, and now his thumbs were rubbing the bridges of his feet. With each sweeping press, another wave of feeling rippled across his body. He shuddered, still suspicious of Geralt’s play, pondering what had possibly inspired him to such unnecessarily complicated whims. But then, Geralt began to lean forward, then paused, face lifting to check on Jaskier just a foot away from where his hands still massaged his feet. Jaskier’s eyes grew wide, then quickly snapped shut, understanding from Geralt’s look alone that things _would not_ continue on until he did so. “F-Fine, fine! They’re sh— _ahh_!”

Jaskier’s back arched as warm moisture suddenly hit the flat of his toes. To his bewilderment, he could feel the tip of Geralt’s tongue tracing the ball of his foot, and up along the side of his big toe, and then passing over to the other. He felt the soft, cord-like press of lips as they closed down around his toes, and even the moist, shifting warmth _between_ them as Geralt began to suck. Unburdened by his own eyes, Jaskier was free to simply feel, and in that felt so much that his knees had bent and his hands had started to pick at the sheets. “G-Ger… _aahhh_ … Geralt… !” he mumbled, caught between the massage of Geralt’s hands and the suckling of his tongue.

“Mmm?” Geralt hummed around his toes. Slowly, he drew his tongue and lips back along Jaskier’s skin, gradually lifting up and off his toes to finally part with a final glance of his tongue between them. He smirked, though he knew Jaskier wouldn’t see his triumph. “Is something wrong? You don’t like it?”

To Geralt’s supreme satisfaction, Jaskier’s cheeks flushed brightly, and his chest rapidly rose and fell in evidence of his thrill. “Damn it, Geralt,” he uttered through gritted teeth, but refused to say anything more. He dared not give Geralt the satisfaction of knowing just how much he _did_ like it… but he’d be loathe to say anything that would deter the WItcher from continuing. Instead, he let his head roll to one side, blissfully unaware of the attractive way it presented the cords of his neck… then subtly, _very_ subtly, let his butt scoot just an inch closer to Geralt.

It was all the confirmation Geralt needed, his hands easing their way back down Jaskier’s feet to wrap along his outside ankles. “Yeah, I thought so,” he chuckled, letting his warm breath brush against Jaskier’s skin just before pressing a firm kiss to the bridge of his still-dry foot. He took a moment to enjoy it, marveling its soft, uncalloused skin with the flat of his tongue while the hand on Jaskier’s opposite leg began inching up towards his calf. That leg relaxed into his fingers’ massaging of its firm muscles while the other fought against its own squirming - Geralt’s hot saliva was sending shocks of sensation through Jaskier’s caught limb, slowly twisting a coil deep in his gut, and it was all he could do to keep his leg steady beneath Geralt’s lips in the desperate hope he’d get more.

Of course, Geralt was more than happy to oblige. He could sense the effect he was having on Jaskier in the gradual thickening of the air around him. His tongue traced around Jaskier’s foot, then up along his shin, and after he’d gotten only about halfway up its length he paused to breathe deep of Jaskier’s scent. It was as he remembered it, and then some, imparting a mild high as he willingly filled his lungs with the intoxicating, demonic aura. Exhaling hotly back upon Jaskier’s calf, he let his eyes slip back open, and he stole a moment to admire how perfect and smooth Jaskier’s skin laid before him. After all, this had only _mostly_ been for Jaskier’s sake, and even though Geralt had barely begun he could feel his own desire starting to bubble.

He left the current leg to his hand’s possessive petting, fingertips drawing tiny circles along the side of Jaskier’s calf, and his head turned instead to regard the other. His gaze slipped along the limb, watching as blind anticipation settled upon it. Apparently, Jaskier knew, or at least hoped, which side was next, subconsciously welcoming Geralt to it by laying it flat and still as though upon a silver platter. Geralt licked his lips, taking his sweet time carefully considering his meal… then at last opened wide and, with no preamble, bit down just above Jaskier’s knee.

“AAH!” Jaskier yelped, his body’s reflexive buck shifting him closer to Geralt. It took effort to keep his eyes obediently shut - he managed it by clenching both them and his hands, and instead letting his mouth fall wide. He’d only just recovered from the initial shock when warmth closed around the bite, and the agony of his voice melted instead to the desperate moaning of his lover’s name. “Geralt,” he purred, the Witcher’s circling fingers continuing to wind him ever tighter. “Geralt, I… I feel _everything_ …”

A childlike wonder painted his words, and from that Geralt knew his play was working. Triumph encouraged him to adjust his position, shifting both his legs beneath him as he continued abusing Jaskier’s flesh. He directed the other man’s legs to lay wide to either side of him, held down with a strong hand upon either knee, and when he finally begrudgingly abandoned his bite, the attacked flesh thoroughly bruised, it was for but a fleeting moment, his eyes already snapping to his next target upon Jaskier’s other thigh.

“Geralt!” came another impassioned cry, the Witcher’s mouth finding the bottom of Jaskier’s inner thigh. This time, however, it was quick and sharp, and swiftly smoothed over by a flattened tongue licking along the groove between Jaskier’s muscles. The hand on the opposing leg inched higher, stroking its outer side, fingertips falling _just_ shy of his hip’s pinch. It had the full of Jaskier’s legs shuddering with feeling, with even the occasional stray tingling in his toes. A few nibbles sprinkled around the initial bite, and Geralt was trading legs again, his face shifting just a bit higher - and pushing Jaskier’s legs just a bit wider.

This time, when Jaskier screamed, it warped as it rose from his chest, melting into a drawn-out, strained moan while his hands clutched fistfuls of sheets and his spine twisted into a taut crescent. His legs curled around Geralt, subconsciously hugging his head against where his teeth dug into Jaskier’s inner thigh. Geralt responded in kind, swiftly slipping his arms under Jaskier’s legs and around his waist to hold the smaller man tight against his broad chest. He sucked the flesh between his teeth just a moment longer, then released it with a parting kiss so his tongue could slip further along Jaskier’s inner thigh in search of the crease marking its end and his ass’ beginning.

“G-Geralt… Geralt… !” Jaskier panted, grasping hands finally finding Geralt’s knees so they could then lay upon his thighs. As Geralt doted upon Jaskier’s ass, licking the smooth curves of each cheek and placing kisses dangerously closer and closer to the crevice between, his fingers explored his abdomen, made tight and rippling from his precarious position. Jaskier made known his approval of tongue and fingers alike with a tight squeeze of Geralt’s thighs, and he was at last rewarded with a single stroke of Geralt’s tongue down the full of his crack, its devilish tip glancing the loose skin of his sack. His whole body shivered with delight, trembling lips offering up a delirious, “ _Aahhn_!”

With Jaskier’s musk consuming his senses, it was difficult for Geralt to resist seizing him right then and there. Certainly, judging by the distinctive hint of precum, Jaskier was plenty ready for it. But as much as Geralt wanted to claim his tight pucker and throbbing length, there was so much _more_ he wanted… He grinned deviously against Jaskier’s rump, and granted it one last, sharp nip in parting.

_I’ll be back for you later._

Jaskier flinched, a tiny squeak escaping him at the sudden but fleeting feeling. But then, he felt Geralt move away, lowering his legs back down upon the bed. “What?” he practically whined, confusion furrowing his brow. He wanted to look and see what was going on, but somehow managed to resist opening his eyes, still savoring the way it amplified Geralt’s touch. “What are you—oh. _Oh_!” Jaskier’s voice diverted the minute he felt hot breath collide against his pelvis, heralding the moist muscle that soon slathered the slant of his lowest abs. His hips tried to buck, but Geralt’s hands had claimed a firm hold upon them, keeping his lower half aggravatingly pinned upon the bed.

Geralt chuckled against his skin, letting his lips brush along the ripples of his abs between the occasional drifts of his tongue’s teasing tip. “You didn’t… think I was done… did you?” he whispered, voice drifting in and out as he explored Jaskier’s every dip and cranny. His tongue found the base of Jaskier’s ribs, marking it with a gentle kiss. While his thumbs imparted a constant, dull comfort with their gentle rubbing, his face moved just a touch back down the curve of Jaskier’s side and slightly inward. The flesh here was soft… perfectly primed for another hungry bite.

“I’d hoped n— _aaah_!” Jaskier’s voice twisted when the sharp pain came through, his body delightedly squirming. With his hips caught, the most he could really do was arch his back and grasp at the sheets - and Geralt’s hair. Even Jaskier was surprised to realize his fingers had combed their ways through Geralt’s thick, wintery locks, but he didn’t exactly have the mental presence to protest it. He was _far_ too busy treating Geralt’s ears to a chorus of needy panting, in turn inspiring Geralt to lower his chest against Jaskier’s loins while his suckling lips slowly migrated across his musculature.

With the shifting, the grizzly curls of his chest brushed against the underside of Jaskier’s cock, and again Jaskier was fighting against Geralt’s hands. But this time, Jaskier’s moans were laced with infernal words Geralt could never grasp yet somehow implicitly understood, scenes of their intertwined bodies flickering behind Geralt’s eyelids with Jaskier’s every mindless cry. The thoughts drove away at Geralt’s restraint, beckoning him to at last let loose his desire. A grunt fell out of him, muffled by another bite. Jaskier’s hips jerked violently, intense feeling lifting his voice into a scream, and at last Geralt’s resolve began to slip. One hand slid off Jaskier’s hip to instead claim a tight squeeze of his ass - the other fell off completely, then swept under Jaskier’s back to dig its fingernails down Jaskier’s spine.

There was no more holding back Jaskier’s lust. The fingers in Geralt’s hair tightened, holding him close, while Jaskier’s other hand found Geralt’s shoulder. With these two holds as his anchors, and at last unburdened from the Witcher’s staying grips, Jaskier was free to writhe beneath his lover, arching his back so he could press his cock right up into the groove between Geralt’s pecs. Behind his clenched eyes, Jaskier could see the muscles gripped in Geralt’s palms, the skin scraped by Geralt’s nails, the fingers enveloped by Geralt’s hair, the length hardened by Geralt’s chest. He scratched at Geralt’s scalp, and the hair brushed among his fingers precisely the way he’d thought they would. He rocked his hips back and forth, and the chest pressed back and forth along his dick precisely the way he’d thought they would. Every tiny movement lit up his body like a heatmap of pure sensation, and he revelled in it so intensely he began to forget just when and where he was.

_Who_ he was.

“Don’t stop!” he heard his voice beg, feeling Geralt’s tongue stray from his ribs. His hand pulled on Geralt’s hair, guiding him higher. More cursed babbling fell from his lips, gracing Geralt with a view of his tongue sliding along Jaskier’s chest.

Geralt voiced his approval of the vision with a deep, needy groan into Jaskier’s midsection, and the slip of his hand further around his firm cheek. He let Jaskier position his head, and when he saw the other man’s wispy curls come into view he immediately opened wide and let his saliva-slicked tongue slop down upon it. Up and down, side to side, Geralt rediscovered every inch of the landscape Jaskier so infamously teased with but a few neglected buttons. His lips sought out a nipple, then clamped down upon it to begin its assault of viscious suckling, as though they’d impart more than purely carnal nourishment. The scene summoned by Jaskier’s moans fell back into sporiety as his coherence crumbled apart, but even their flickers continued urging Geralt on.

No willful thought remained in Jaskier’s mind - only the need to feel, the need to _see_. He continued stroking Geralt’s hair more lovingly than he might ever have remembered doing if only he retained any capacity for recollection. Geralt’s torso had slid along the swollen head of Jaskier’s erection so that now the rocking of his hips granted it the textured rub of Geralt’s rippled abs. His hand slid down Geralt’s shoulder to instead stroke his bicep, marveling at the solid muscle greeted by the dig of his fingertips.

The more Jaskier delighted, the more he clung, and the more Geralt knew the true depth of his victory. Jaskier’s voice sang as much, weaving a ballad of desperate moans that painted for Geralt the exact nature of his lust. At last, Geralt permitted himself to partake of his ultimate prize, his tongue scaling up Jaskier’s chest and along his clavicle until at last coming to rest in a bite to the base of his neck. He felt Jaskier’s head fall back for another of his delectable screams, and in the temporary disturbance of his rhythm Geralt swiftly released his ass so that devilish hand could instead dive down and under to press a finger to his tight pucker.

Hopeful suspense gagged Jaskier’s voice, both his hands freezing in their tight grasps of hair and muscle. Geralt grinned into Jaskier’s neck, then released Jaskier’s flesh so he could lift his face and deliver his husky, heated whisper directly against Jaskier’s ear.

“ _Release me_.”

Jaskier’s chest swelled with bated breath, uncertain if he’d understood correctly. The finger pressing against him eased off, shifting into a taunting circling of his hole. Message _well_ received. Immediately, Jaskier’s hands diverted into a mad scramble between their bodies, clawing their way down in desperate search of the cruel cloth binding his Geralt. Pleased by the response, Geralt rewarded him by returning the pressure to his finger, its tip slowly beginning to ease apart Jaskier’s clench. He rubbed it back and forth, taunting Jaskier with the motion’s pleasing waves, until finally Jaskier’s fingertips found his undergarment’s drawstring and started searching for its tie.

Even when they found it, they struggled in Jaskier’s mindlessness to work out its knot, a fight made no easier when Geralt’s finger finally breached its target and sank down to the first knuckle inside the waiting warmth. With Jaskier clinging to his digit, he moved his finger subtly back-and-forth, the mild, shallow finger-fucking imparting enough sensation to make Jaskier’s hands fumble the knot in their grasp. “D-Damn it, Geralt!” he whimpered, his legs tightening into an awkward hug of Geralt’s. “Please… Please, let me… !”

“Hmm?” Geralt innocently purred into his ear. He gave it, and the full length of Jaskier’s neck, a languid, hot lick. “Let you what?”

“ _Aah_!” Jaskier’s voice pitched before he could answer, Geralt’s finger sinking passed to the next knuckle. Coaxed by Jaskier’s crooning, Geralt grew more bold and gradually picked up the pace. With every thrust back up Jaskier’s rectum, his finger pressed more and more against the threshold, threatening to push past its final swell. It created a sort of impending doom: Geralt’s ministrations would only grow more intense from here, so Jaskier had better act quickly if he wanted to let loose the thick muscle he knew awaited him behind Geralt’s briefs. With this renewed sense of emergency, his fingertips hooked back onto the knot holding the garment together.

A pull, a tug, a flick, and at last Jaskier felt the cord fall limp in his hands. The collapse of rough cotton soon followed - and, as reward for his task, that final bit of finger burrowed the rest of its way passed his anus, allowing the full digit to wriggle inside him. “Yes!” Jaskier cried, uncertain even himself if it celebrated more the removal of Geralt’s final clothing or the full swallowing of his finger. He slid his hands passed the garment’s band and along the smooth, firm curve of Geralt’s backside, pushing the underwear around and off Geralt’s hips with his wrists. Letting it fall the rest of the way down Geralt’s thighs, his hands quickly glided along the muscles of his waist back to the front of his pelvis, where a thrillingly thick, hardened cock awaited him. He bit his lip, unaware just how lewd an expression he was treating Geralt to, and encompassed both their dicks with a single hand, pressing and rubbing the two sensitive organs right against each other.

Despite himself, Geralt’s mouth fell open, a strained grunt escaping passed his lips. When Jaskier’s other hand found its way to his neck, and then began to squeeze, the threatened asphyxiation spurned him further, and he let a second finger pry at Jaskier’s gripping hole. Apparently, this was _precisely_ what Jaskier had hoped for, his mouth stretching wide to fill the air with more impassioned cries. Truly, it was music to Geralt’s ears, his fingers pumping Jaskier’s ass faster and his hips starting to rock himself in Jaskier’s grip… But he was also starting to think of a better use of that empty, gaping mouth.

At first, Jaskier almost gagged when he felt Geralt’s fingers dive in upon his tongue. Instinctually, he guessed what Geralt was playing at and _plenty_ eager to assist, his mouth quickly closing around Geralt and tongue lapping between each digit. He sucked on them like a dick, resurfacing Geralt’s memories of past blowjobs with every stroke of his tongue and rush of his spit. As Geralt shivered in delight, he almost wished it _were_ his dick stuffing Jaskier’s mouth… _almost_.

“Hah… Good,” Geralt managed between heavy moans, spreading his fingers across Jaskier’s tongue. Obediently, Jaskier opened his mouth, showing off the saliva he’d let gather. Geralt licked his lips and offered an approving, “Mmm.” With an expert curl, he scooped what he could into his hand, then drew it away from Jaskier’s mouth to ultimately slather upon their dicks.

The abrupt cool of moisture made Jaskier jump almost as much as the begrudging withdrawal of Geralt’s fingers from their respective hovels. Quickly, he let go of their cocks and directed his mind to focusing on his finger-widened ass - he didn’t want to spend a single moment empty more than he absolutely _had_ to, and proved as much by lifting his legs and grabbing his cheeks in hopeful presentation to his Witcher.

Geralt chuckled, hungry eyes falling to the gaping hole as he continued stroking Jaskier’s saliva all around his thick girth. “Want it that badly, huh?”

“I _need_ it!” Jaskier whined, eyes clenching tight and head rolling to the side. Enough desperation clung to his voice that he sounded like an addict chasing a high - and perhaps that wasn’t too far off from the truth. Already, the heat was starting to fade, and with it his newfound sense of his body, and Jaskier felt certain he’d do _anything_ to reclaim it. “Please, Geralt!”

If there was one thing Geralt was starting to love more in the world than anything else, it was the sound of Jaskier’s lust uttering his name.

Benevolent Witcher that he was, Geralt finally lowered the spit-soaked head of his cock, lining it up with Jaskier’s offering. One hand directed his cock while the other braced himself on the underside of Jaskier’s leg, holding both men steady for his careful approach. After what felt like an eternity, Jaskier at last felt the wide, soft head pressing against him, the very tip already needling passed his stretch. Geralt pushed further, adding such small minutia of force Jaskier barely perceived the difference in his moment-to-moment focus upon Geralt’s dick. Another slop of moisture hit Jaskier’s anus as Geralt spat, trying to further slicken his imposing girth.

Finally, his hood flicked through, and Jaskier’s clench began constricting around his sensitive ridge. Geralt gasped, his hand clenching upon Jaskier’s leg, and Jaskier threw his head back, struggling to keep himself steadily, ideally positioned to take Geralt in. Further and further sank Geralt’s length, pushing Jaskier wider and wider. What had been a mostly continuous chorus of passion was now a stuttering series of Jaskier’s pants, another bursting forth with every bit of progress. As soon as Geralt had sunk enough for Jaskier’s ass to hold his angle, his hand left his dick to instead reclaim Jaskier’s mouth, missing the feel of Jaskier’s tongue against his flesh and giving the incubus something to take his struggles out on. Jaskier gratefully accepted its return, taking to sucking it so as to focus himself upon his pleasure, and added to their tangle his hand back upon Geralt’s neck. This time, he wasted no time in squeezing its many cords, pulling out of Geralt a guttural pant of his own.

Deeper. Deeper. Jaskier squeezed tighter. Tighter. “ _Umph_!” Jaskier moaned around Geralt’s fingertips, the sound plenty begging enough to betray its meaning. He wanted _more_. Geralt took what breath he could and applied a final, powerful push.

Finally, Jaskier’s ass gave way to the last, thickest inch of Geralt’s dick, his voice shrieking his pleasure-pain through clenched teeth and his fingertips digging into Geralt’s neck. Geralt let go of his leg and fell forward over Jaskier, catching himself with the flat of his forearm upon the bed beside Jaskier’s head. For a moment, he held still, feeling Jaskier’s muscles relax under and around him. He freed his fingers from Jaskier’s mouth, and as his eyes began to study Jaskier’s delirious face more closely than he’d ever studied it before, he laid his hand along its side, fingertips just barely gracing the tips of his chocolatey hair.

Jaskier’s hand fell away from Geralt’s neck. Geralt wet his lips, hesitated, then placed a soft kiss upon Jaskier’s cheek. “Are you alright?”

“Yes,” Jaskier sighed, and in his airy, relaxed voice it was clear he still wandered somewhere on the edge of his reality, aware only of Geralt and him and Geralt _in_ him and none of the reasons why any of it had come to be. He cared only for this very moment - or rather, as he soon made clear in a low whisper delivered to Geralt’s cheek, the very _next_ moment.

“Fuck me.”

So the incubus beckoned, and so the Witcher delivered. Anchored by his knees and elbows, Geralt eased himself back out of Jaskier’s ass, then plummeted right back in after only half a withdrawal. The minute Jaskier had swallowed him whole again, back out he drew. Within fleeting moments, Geralt built up to a steady, driving pace, drilling Jaskier with his thickest girth.

“Ah, aah!” Jaskier groaned, back starting to arch again. Every thrust sent another wave of precious feeling through him, joining with the heat from every place Geralt’s body glanced against his own. One of his hands found his cock, and the other dug into the sheets, needing to soak in every ounce of the euphoria Geralt had granted him. “Yes… Yes! Please, don’t stop… !”

Those desperate whispers drove Geralt mad with desire. His hips sped their pounding, each successive sink shoving his dick just a bit deeper, reaching as far along Jaskier’s tract as it could aspire to. His eyes fixated upon Jaskier’s glistening lips. The next thing he knew, his own had collided with them, swallowing Jaskier’s tongue just moments before it threatened to descend back to its nonsensical muttering. Their tongues danced furiously beside one-another, each just as surprised as the other to have joined and equally loathe to question it. With Jaskier’s mouth captured, Geralt couldn’t hear the incubus warn of his approaching oblivion, but he certainly felt it well enough in the small spasms that had begun shuddering along his limbs.

He took this as his queue: if anything still held back, now was the time to unleash it. He summoned his full strength, slamming himself against Jaskier’s ass hard enough to make his balls slap. The lewd sound only added to the decadence of their joining, their kiss turning to sucking each other’s tongues and Jaskier’s hand rocketing back and forth along his cock. Jaskier’s muscles grew tight, and the spasms more frequent. Geralt was only a moment behind, starting to feel the tensing in his limbs.

Suddenly, Jaskier’s hand traded the sheet for Geralt’s head. He grabbed his hair, dug his nails into his scalp, pulled his face closer. The whole rest of his body was still for just a split second before a violent convulsing took over, and long ropes of hot cum sprayed between the two men’s burning chests.

The feel of Jaskier’s fulfillment soiling his chest gave Geralt the last little nudge he needed to at last break through. The hand by Jaskier’s face jerked down to grab his neck, while the other took its strength out upon the bed. He burrowed himself the very deepest he could achieve inside Jaskier to finally release his thick ejaculate. It quickly filled the tight space, enveloping his cock in his own filth and pressing its way down along his pumping length to seep out the edges of Jaskier’s pucker.

Even before the initial waves had finished running its course, Geralt’s arms gave out. Unable to hold himself, he collapsed breathlessly upon Jaskier, lips falling away from the other man’s lips to where it now panted beside Jaskier’s ear. He could still feel Jaskier’s anus gripping him, could still feel his last jets shooting out, but his eyes were heavy, and his mind blank. A drifting thought worried for the person he was undoubtedly crushing beneath his heft - this was soon banished with the wrap of two thin arms around his torso, draped upon his back like a pair of silken ribbons, and a single, soft whisper.

“Rest, My Witcher.”

* * *

At first, when Geralt’s eyes began to coax themselves open, his heart sank. There was no face smiling back at him, no fingers combing his hair, no toes stroking his legs. He sighed heavily, rolling onto his back to stare at the ceiling. Perhaps he should have expected it. Their previous “morning after” had likely been a fluke. Really, with all his life’s expansive experiences, he should’ve been used to it by now, but foolish he had come to hope for those first gentle words beneath the rising sun. He probably had Yen to blame for that.

Yet even as he resolved himself to his solitude, he frowned, noticing something not quite right in the air. The still-fading grogginess of sleep obscured its nature, and even when Geralt finally recognized it was a sound the sensation felt alien and strange, so long had it been since he’d last heard it. It was a series of small, hesitant stutters, incredibly short and pinched but no less sweet, with just the slightest hint of a fibrous tug. Disbelief widened his eyes, and he sat bolt upright, head snapping in the direction of its source.

“Ah!” Jasker jumped, startled by Geralt’s sudden movement. The sounds clashed as his hands fumbled with their treasure, then abruptly silenced as his arms hugged it to his chest. His shock swiftly subsided into guilt when his mind caught up to his reflexes, his whole expression and posture immediately deflating. “S-Sorry, did I wake you up… ?”

Geralt chuckled, a gentle smile touching his lips. Somehow, the frantic but pure nature of the scene before him gave him comfort - a distant part of him cringed with regret, knowing there had been a time he would have lashed out at this very same display. “No, Jaskier.” He adjusted himself upon the bed, laying back against its headboard and folding his hands upon his lap. With a gesture of his eyes to the thing in Jaskier’s arms, he asked, “Do you like it?”

Jaskier quieted. He relaxed his arms to let it lay before him, eyes somberly falling to behold the wood’s exquisite craftmanship, the polish’s bright sheen, the strings’ sturdy thrum. “It’s beautiful,” he murmured, so quiet Geralt only heard it thanks to his enhanced senses. He sighed, shaking his head and laying the lute beside him on the floor. “Expensive, I imagine.”

“It’s not if it’s worth it,” Geralt countered with a shrug.

“I’m not sure that it is,” Jaskier scoffed, finally pulling his longing eyes away from the instrument to stare at Geralt. A kind of detached distance came over him, and Geralt suddenly had the sense he was gazing upon something Geralt couldn’t see. “I haven’t played since that day upon the mountain.”

_Oh._

Geralt winced. Jaskier wasn’t looking at him, but he averted his eyes nonetheless, unable to face him. His fingers fidgeted with the sheets, and his lips pursed. He knew he should say something, he just hadn’t the foggiest idea just what it should be.

After a brief silence, Jaskier’s eyes flickered out of his reverie to notice Geralt’s conflicted state. He offered a kind albeit pained smile. “It’s alright,” he gently replied. “I let myself get addicted to…” He faltered, then gestured between the two of them. “Let me pretend I was okay, I suppose. Ended up consuming most of my time.”

“It wouldn't have happened if not for me,” Geralt grumbled, glaring at his hands upon the sheets. “I took my anger out on you. You, the one person who’d always stood by me.”

Jaskier rolled his eyes. “Please. That’s _hardly_ the worst sin to transgress between us by now.”

Geralt’s eyes finally braved the distance between them, warily eying Jaskier in a flicker of inspiration. “Is that… why you’re so attached to the whole ‘Ezekiel’ thing… ?”

Jaskier flinched at the name, then drew his legs up so he could lay his head upon them, hugged by his arms and hiding his face. “Technically, no. That’s the name I’ve been given in my eternal Hell.” He scoffed. “I can’t even _say_ my name anymore without gagging.” A silence followed, one that made it clear Geralt wouldn’t be giving him an easy out from his question. His arms tightened around his legs, his head sinking lower behind them. His voice began to break, and in its trembling Geralt could hear his torment, how his memories had rapidly come to haunt him. “I… did some horrible things, Geralt. And not just to you. Human. Beast. Men, women… ch—”

“Stop,” Gerlat abruptly cut him off. His stomach had already started to churn, and he struggled to force away the memories of just how Jaskier had “handled” the monsters plaguing their previous encounter. “I don’t need to know.”

“Yes you _do_ , Geralt,” Jaskier insisted, finally looking back up at him. “How else can I possibly redeem myself?”

Geralt scowled back at him. “You think _I_ can give that to you?”

Jaskier fell quiet again, withdrawing back into his self-loathing.

With a pitying shake of his head, Geralt continued. “It’s not mine to give, Jaskier. And you’re right to think most of it probably _can’t_ be redeemed. You’ll have to come to terms with that on your own.” He straightened up off the headboard and folded his legs, leaning closer to Jaskier in hopes it’d help add sincerity to his words. “But we _can_ work through all that’s happened between us. And I’d like to try to, if you’ll let us.”

For a while, Jaskier only stared at him, sullenly picking at the hem of his sleeve. Geralt could see a mess of complicated thoughts tumbling in his dark eyes: frustration, joy, guilt, nostalgia, rage. Ultimately, he turned away, gazing back upon the lute, and at last his hand fell from his legs to lovingly draw its fingers along the lute’s delicate strings. When he finally spoke, it was quiet and fragile, somehow at once nothing and everything like the man he’d once known. “I’m sorry, Geralt.”

“I know you are,” the Witcher sighed. “And… And I am, too.”

He heard Jaskier’s smile in the brief smirk of his voice. “I know you are.”

Letting his legs collapse into a pretzel-cross, Jaskier picked up the lute and laid it in his lap. Despite the passage of time, it felt comforting and familiar in his hands, harkening back to the days he’d thirsted for knowledge and experiences and adventures. His head tilted, studying its every detail, examining its particular curves.

Hesitantly at first, and gradually more boldly, like a child discovering music for the very first time, Jaskier’s fingertips plucked its strings, and trickling notes sparkled in the air once more.

Geralt smirked, laying back down and folding his hands beneath his head. “We could get you a tutor?”

“Fuck off.”


	3. Dance, Sweet Lover

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Chapter-specific tags:_
> 
>   * _Bath Sex_
>   * _Anal Fingering_
>   * _Mutual Masterbation_
>   * _Choking_
>   * _(I'm assuming some kind of "Master" tag for the second scene, but I'm not really sure which one fits.)_
> 


Water splashed down over his head, waterfalling through thick cords of tangled hair so grime-caked they looked more grey than white. The water itself was lukewarm and stale, having stagnated in its well a bit longer than anyone would have preferred, but even that was far better than the slimy bog water it sought to displace. Geralt wiped his face clear with both of his broad, calloused hands, the gleaming yellow of his eyes flickering about in search of his companion. “I thought everything you did was supposed to be ‘nicer’,” he grumbled, finally spotting Jaskier perched upon a stool behind him. In stark contrast to their previous accord, he kept himself tucked away in a dark corner of the room, watching over Geralt: depending on the particular flicker of the candlelight, he seemed to at once play the roles of both guardian and predator.

The small, devious smile that curled his lips didn’t help the matter. “Only when I’m trying to seduce you.”

Geralt scoffed, then slowly let himself sink deeper into his bath. “And that’s not a full-time engagement?” He fixed his eyes upon a small clump of mud that had come loose in the water, idle fingers plucking at it to toss it aside. Now that he’d asked the question, he suddenly wasn’t so sure he wanted to hear the answer.

He suspected Jaskier could tell as much. He could feel those ethereal eyes on the back of his head: eyes that had seen that particular view of him countless times before, but now felt worlds apart from what had once been. It was… exhilarating, in a way, in its strangeness as much as its unspoken yet inalterable desire. It kept Geralt on his toes in a way nothing else could, wondering if any given moment would bring the next fall into a fit of debauchery. It forced him to constantly consider whether _he_ desired such whims, and in turn think about his body tangled with Jaskier’s more frequently than he’d ever dreamed he would. More often than he cared to admit, the cards would fall with Jaskier holding back while he’d been ready, perhaps even eager, to take the plunge - and again they’d drift back into a new round of back-and-forth, only this time with Geralt just that little bit more wound up than before.

And just a little more. And just a little more.

Geralt wondered if it was on purpose. Just another part of the play.

He knew simply from the nature of Jaskier’s eventual sigh that this very thing had come to pass. “This is my burden. As appreciative as I am for your willingness to serve it, I can’t imagine too much of that to be healthy for whatever friendship we can still salvage.”

Geralt winced. _Not intentional, then. At least not this time._ He turned to cast a raised brow over his shoulder. “None of this is even remotely similar to other incubi I’ve crossed.”

An amused purr tickled the stale air. “Well, to be fair, I’m not like _other_ incubi.”

“You know what I mean, Jaskier,” he replied with a roll of his eyes. “With the horns and the hooves.”

“Mmm,” Jaskier murmured. “I’m told I’m supposed to have horns, but I’ve never seen them. And they wouldn’t be nearly so large as those over-compensating scamps.”

This genuine glimpse into Jaskier’s new existence rose Geralt’s brow with insatiable intrigue. “Is that jealousy I detect?”

“Though born of Lust,” Jaskier recited, “you’ll find a frequent friend in Jealousy.” When the lingering of Geralt’s look made clear he wouldn’t let the topic drop so easily, Jaskier sighed and gestured toward him. “They have a rather nasty habit of killing their lovers. Insatiable as you’ve no doubt found me from time to time, you’ll notice I’ve never left you worse for wear.” A brief pause, and then a devious glint beside a subtle smirk. “Well, ‘special occasions’ aside.”

A violent flush took over Geralt’s face, and at last he looked away and sank a little lower into his bath. “Ah,” he muttered against the water.

But now, Jaskier fostered his own curiosities. He tilted his head at his long-time friend, studious gaze noting Geralt’s particular poise, tension, and idle fiddling. It was plain to see, at least to him, that the wheels still turned in Geralt’s head. That sort of fixation typically only meant one of two things when it came to the crotchety old witcher: either the solving of a problem or the analyzing of a threat. Given the nature of the conversation, focused more upon Jaskier’s newfound kind than he himself, he felt pretty confident betting on the latter of the two. Keeping a keen eye on Geralt’s reactions, he finally replied, “I doubt I’m the first of my kind you’ve come across.”

Suddenly, the witcher’s wide eyes whirled back upon him, filled with equal parts embarrassment and alarm.

Jaskier quickly backpedaled. “That didn’t come out right! I meant…” He looked for an alternative connection, one more familiar and less alarming for Geralt to follow him along. “I presume you’ve been to the whore houses recently?”

To that, Geralt found himself offering a cocky smirk. “That’s not against our ‘arrangement,’ is it?” he asked, raising his palm towards Jaskier. Not but the passage of time marred its calloused surface, but both men could sense the symbol humming within it flesh. “I’ll admit you’re a lot of fun, but you’re not exactly the only thing I crave.”

Jaskier rose an amused brow. “I’m hardly one to condemn that sort of thing.” He paused, rolling his eyes skyward. “Used to be, I suppose. I acknowledge I got rather… _protective_ , let’s call it, of my companions.”

“Right,” Geralt snickered. “Sure. So, did you have a point? Or have you simply taken interest in the latest courtesan gossip?”

Jaskier’s eyes flickered over Geralt. “Faced a bit of rejection recently, haven’t you?”

At that, Geralt bristled, his brow narrowing suspiciously upon his companion. “If you’re testing some kind of new seduction tactic, it’s not working. Besides, I didn’t—”

“Have any interest in them?” Jaskier finished for him. “That’s precisely my point. The ones you didn’t like, that also didn’t like you? They’re _my_ kind of succubi and incubi, and my Mark has removed you from their menu.”

“Am I to thank you, then?” he grumbled, turning back around to re-settle in his bathe. Nonetheless, he began to contemplate what Jaskier was saying, eyes scanning over his palm. “Some of them used to be my favorites, you know.” The minute he said it, the realization finally hit, and he looked up and over his shoulder back at Jaskier. “They’ve been succubi this whole time?”

“And you didn’t even notice,” Jaskier concluded for him. “Which is my point. Those _other_ creatures don’t have to worry about sustaining their prey any longer than their own lifetimes. I, meanwhile, have to make this work for the rest of eternity - a task made infinitely more difficult if one of my sources dies off.”

Geralt considered Jaskier carefully, of course fully aware of the possibility it was all some kind of demonic ploy. Everything he said made enough sense - but only if other things he’d said were _also_ true. His gaze drifted back to his palm, stroking back and forth through the water. Ultimately, it all seemed to revolve around Jaskier’s… “Ezekiel’s”… Mark, and other aspects of his posthumous form. For this, there was only one “pure” way of verification, unaffected by Jaskier’s integrity - or lack thereof.

His eyes slid shut. “Stand over there,” he gruffly ordered, gesturing toward the front of the tub.

Jaskier scoffed. “What for? Testing something on me?” Nonetheless, he complied, drifting along the edge of the room. Even without the aid of his eyes, Geralt could feel his warm, coaxing presence shift, circling like a vulture sizing up his next meal. “You’ve already tried Yrden. I’m guessing I’m not in for another Igni or Aard, on account of not levelling this fine establishment - which _I_ quite graciously procured for us, might I remind you.”

His presence stilled - perched beside the room’s table of dried herbs, Geralt guessed. Quieting the rest of his mind, the torrent of questions and curiosities and doubts, Geralt focused upon a singular vision, the sort he would _never_ expose to a single other soul. If Jaskier spoke the truth, and his form truly presented to Geralt in whatever way best sated his Lust, then Geralt should be able to alter that presentation simply by directing that Lust.

Of course, if it _did_ work, then he’d also no longer have any other explanation for why the incubus showed him his dearly departed bard.

“Axii could be fun,” Jaskier cluelessly rambled on. “Not really sure how that one would play out, to be honest. I get the feeling it’s not the sort of thing—”

Geralt’s eyes slipped open. Jaskier cut himself off, taken by his own intrigue in the witcher’s peculiar look. Though subtle at first, he could taste Geralt’s quickened heartbeat upon the very air, and as he leaned in for a closer look felt its intensity swell. His gaze dropped down and watched flaccid flesh stiffen to full prominence through the murky water. A single brow rose, and when his eyes slid back to meet Geralt’s they reflected the same, anxious arousal back upon the witcher. “What do you see, Geralt?”

The vision broke, Jaskier’s voice chasing away the thick mane, the third eye, the elongated face. He looked up - no trace of the antlers massive enough to scrape along both the ceiling and the walls alike. “What my mind believes I should,” he finally murmured, at last letting his eyes fall back down upon his companion. Jaskier’s face now lingered just inches before his own, hands gripping the edges of the basin for support. Before, he’d been wearing a simple tunic and slacks, same as he always had: but now, he stood between Geralt’s legs in the bath, and it seemed Geralt’s mind had succinctly decided clothes simply didn’t make sense for that situation. Being “trapped” beneath his friend in this way was far from the predator he’d managed to summon, if only fleetingly so, but it delighted him no less. The unwavering hardness of his shaft declared as much, and as his gaze drifted lower he could see the incubus was already beginning to feed off that same exhilaration.

Whether either of them had intended to or not, they’d set the game for the evening, and now all that was left was to determine how it’d be played. 

[ ](https://www.patreon.com/ningyogaaru)

Geralt’s head tilted to the side, lips curling into a smirk. “You can feel your legs?”

Jaskier stilled in that way which still thrilled Geralt, when he sensed the control was about to slip through his fingers but hadn’t yet predicted how. “Why?” he asked, unable to help his voice’s innately sultry tone despite its accusatory intent.

“Just curious,” Geralt insincerely replied, just before both hands sprung from the water and caught Jaskier by his biceps.

In a move Jaskier preferred to assume was perfected on the battlefield rather than in the bedsheets, Geralt knocked his balance out from under him and pulled Jaskier down. The bathwater sloshed over the sides of the tub as it gave way around him, then came crashing back in: for a fleeting moment, Jaskier found himself fully submerged, staring up at a muck-blurred vision of gray hair and yellow eyes. Soon enough, however, a broad hand slid into place at the base of his head and lifted him toward the surface, just enough for his face to breach and sputter for breath it didn’t need.

Instinctively, his hands moved to wipe the water from his eyes. “What are you doing?!” he gasped, but as his vision cleared the answer already began to set in. In Geralt’s gaze, he could feel the unbridled hunger lapping up the form it’d imagined for itself, and in turn felt his experience of the water shift to match the illusion. His legs, his waist, his chest… even the lingering droplets running down his cheeks traced the youthful lie Geralt’s eyes wove. It was the most like himself Jaskier had felt since his death - and even the months leading up to it, if he were honest. It gave him pause, his eyes beginning to glisten as Geralt sensed and in turn saw the swelling emotion.

Geralt tilted his head and smirked, basking in the success of his little experiment. “You’ve got water in your eyes,” he chuckled.

“You’ve completely ruined the mood,” Jaskier scoffed, trying and failing to mask the tearfulness affecting his voice.

With a cocky snicker, Geralt lowered himself, and his face shifted to place his lips against Jaskier’s ear. He fed the incubus a low, almost growling timbre as his hips pressed in: his simple words all but drowned beneath the shuddering, surprised gasp Jaskier released when Geralt’s full girth suddenly slid into place alongside his own.

“Have I?”

Jaskier whimpered, nuzzling against the fingers stroking his hair while his legs subconsciously wormed around Geralt’s. As the sensation of his body strengthened, he could feel his melancholy and bitterness melt away. He felt just a moment away from that long-ago human existence - and all of its longing and vulnerability. A yearning in his chest as much as the aching in his stomach screamed for Geralt’s embrace, but even as those distant feelings began peering out from the past and gazing upon the man arched above him they dared not voice their rekindled hope.

Knowing such things were as forbidden for his new existence as impossible for his tumultuous accord with the witcher, he managed to instead meekly ask, “Why are you doing this? What I perceive of myself no longer matters.”

He felt Geralt pause around him, then press an uncharacteristically tender kiss to the side of his neck, just beneath the water’s edge. Jaskier’s body rose in his arms, bringing their cocks glancing against each other. His soft moan harmonized against Geralt’s grunt, and by the time Geralt finally abandoned his neck the witcher was left breathless save for a single whisper, so faint it was nearly lost in the water’s gentle waves. “It matters to me.”

“Geralt,” Jaskier’s voice needily sighed. His hands glided along Geralt’s sides, fingertips bumping along their dance of bone and rippling muscles. As they drew near the surface, they downward curved along the creases of Geralt’s pecs: they itched for Geralt’s shoulders, his neck, his head, but Jaskier’s longing for the defining water kept them submerged, unwilling to part with this complete sense of self just yet. While they occupied themselves with twirling and combing the curls decorating Geralt’s chest, Jaskier gathered coherence enough to faintly murmur, “This… is nothing like…”

A pair of fingers tracing down Jaskier’s spine replaced his question with an untamed shudder. Reflexively, his legs tightened about Geralt’s, pressing the two men’s members between their desperate bodies. Geralt’s lips curled into a triumphant though faint smile, secure in the knowledge Jaskier couldn’t see his genuine joy from their nestled positions. “Does it have to be?” he posited, letting his hand flatten upon the small of Jaskier’s back. He held the slighter man closer to him, and with the bard secured between his arms began to offer the tiniest, provoking shifts of his hips. “Isn’t it nice to change up the pace for once?”

Jaskier could only incoherently moan in reply. The coaxing feeling of their nestled cocks had his hands clutching Geralt’s chest as best they could, fingertips digging into the witcher’s battle-hardened flesh. They anchored him against the broad, firm muscles holding him in place while his head grew drunk with Lust. It coiled about his dead heart, infecting his every hope and dream, and with neither will nor desire to hold it back it wrapped his tongue in infernal speech. The words Geralt’s teasing drew were unknowable, but nonetheless planted vivid, explicit imagery in his mind, showing him a fleeting waterfall of scenes that had him buried to the hilt in a bound and delirious Jaskier. As if that weren’t enough to encourage him, Jaskier’s narrow hips summoned their own rutting, needily stroking his swell against the throbbing girth that would’ve given any normal lover trouble.

All together, his body’s beckoning finally drew a similarly wanton reaction out of the witcher, a thick grunt squeezing through Geralt’s best restraint. He squeezed Jaskier, as if such a thing would meld their bodies together, then seized the slope of Jaskier’s neck between his lips to keep himself from releasing any more lewd vocalizations. The grateful sigh it earned encouraged him further, his mouth widening to capture a larger bite between his teeth to suckle. It played Jaskier’s voice like a damn instrument, responding to each variation of his licking tongue and descending hands.

Arms wrapped easily over Jaskier’s legs and around his waist, one hand firmly claimed a cheek and held it aside for the other to run its calloused fingers around Jaskier’s hidden pucker. For a moment, Geralt contented himself with simply teasing the pulsing entrance, occasionally pressing against the barrier but never breaching it. It coaxed the precise reaction he’d hoped out of Jaskier, the occasional, faint cry accenting his heady moaning. In this moment, Jaskier’s only discontent was the rather unfortunate conflict between pressing his ass closer to Geralt’s finger in the hopes of even a shallow piercing versus the desire to keep his hips - and, in turn, his dick - rubbing as close to Geralt’s as possible. In the heat of his frustration, he finally managed a few urgent words, uttered through pouting lips beneath a furrowed brow. “Geralt… Would you have me beg?”

Keeping his hands firmly in their stations, Geralt at last released Jaskier’s neck so he could lift his face and meet the other man’s gaze. Jaskier’s expression alone put his desperation on full display… but Geralt was hardly one to let such a glowing opportunity slip through his fingertips.

Not anymore, not now that he was finally beginning to accept what Jaskier’s existence was showing him.

So rather than give in _just_ yet, Geralt turned a sly grin, then coyly tilted his head and placed his lips against the shallow ripple of Jaskier’s ear. “Why wouldn’t I? There is no sweeter sound in the world.”

Geralt’s finger pressed closer. Jaskier’s hips squirmed towards it. Geralt let the motion push his finger away, leaving Jaskier to tighten his legs and sate himself against Geralt’s throb. “You fucking tease!” he whimpered. He grit his teeth and buried his face into the crook of Geralt’s neck, unable - and unwilling - to still the anxious rocking of his hips. An infernal curse slipped through, offering Geralt the salacious vision of Jaskier’s body bound and prone upon a bed of silks, ready and waiting like a gift-wrapped whore. It won him a needy grunt and the squeezing of Geralt’s hands upon his body, but the witcher’s resolve held fast, refusing to buckle beneath demonic whims. Jaskier could feel the hot blood pulsing through Geralt’s neck, beating against his face: there was no lack of want, merely a superior show of will. Knowing both the futility of his resistance and the sheer intensity barely being held at bay, he could not bear to resist any longer. At last, he broke down, abandoning his pride to offer his desperate plea into Geralt’s coarse bristle. “Please, Geralt! Please, just… just put it _in_ already! I can’t—”

Jaskier’s voice cut off into a breathless cry, a sweet and decadent note forced out of him from the plunge of a single, thick digit through to his warm interior. His legs twitched around Geralt’s waist, and his arms held himself steady beneath Geralt’s bulk. His brow wrinkled beneath his need. Through a bit lip, he pathetically whined, lips nipping at Geralt’s neck. “M… More… Give me… !”

Geralt offered him a contented rumble, like the distant thunder of an imminent storm. His buried finger wriggled in its hovel, feeling about its surroundings for a moment before beginning the slow and careful task of working Jaskier’s hole. Geralt gave his companion an uneven mix of rounds about his pucker and shallow pulls and presses, using the waves of pleasure to massage out his tension and widen his gape. With all his trained patience, he waited until Jaskier’s cling waned to an idle, barely present hold about his digit, then finally slid a second fingertip into place, its point steadily prying itself into a home beside its fellow.

“A-Ah!” came Jaskier’s strained voice, dipping and surging with the new finger’s appearance and subsequent plunge. The presence in his rear filled him with a soft, humming delight, coaxed brighter and brighter with every ensuing rock of Geralt’s hand in and out of him. Fed by Geralt’s Lust, whatever lingering inhibitions melted away, inspiring him to reward his witcher with a long drag of his hungry tongue along the thick, pulsing cords of Geralt’s neck. Pressed to Geralt’s throat, his tongue felt the “hmm” it won, and the teetering need corrupting it away from its usual impassive nature. The discovery tickled Jaskier’s fancy, and he allowed his lips to curl into a devilish smirk. His fingertips drew circles through Geralt’s matted chest hair, intent on winding him up enough to obey his honeyed plea. “Geralt… Tell me. Tell me what you want of me?”

Jaskier felt a twitch of Geralt’s cock against his own, just as needy as the low, grunting command he no longer wished to restrain. “Hold me.”

Jaskier’s brow raised, offering an unspoken inquiry while his fingertips idly traced the curves of Geralt’s chest.

A predatorial thirst flickered in Geralt’s eyes as he at last met Jaskier’s head-on, catching the two in a lock neither wished to abandon but were too vulnerable to share. Geralt shuddered, then moved the tip of a third digit into position to help mask his desires under mutual want. “Us.”

With that correction, Jaskier bit his lip, then allowed one hand to plunge deeper into the bath. Just as it approached their cocks, Geralt’s fingers stretched his ass wide enough to let the newcomer slide into place. “Ger—!” he cried, the ensuing surge of pleasure breaking through his words. Unwilling to let another moment slip by, he seized both their pulsing lengths in his hand and set about an urgent pumping.

“Jask!” Geralt couldn’t stop from gasping in return, his hold and movements faltering from a sudden spike in feeling. Even as he reclaimed his control, his fingers continuing to work Jaskier’s pucker wider with every sink, the ecstasy at being stroked in tandem with Jaskier kept his mouth hanging wide and his Lust beating down upon Jaskier with every heated pant. He felt his blood rushing through his member, and revelled in the sensation of feeling the same in Jaskier.

And then, the shuddering began. Caught against each other, neither could deny the imminent fruition of their labors. Jaskier’s expression twisted with teary anticipation, his soft lips quivering with mindless mutters. “Yes… Almost… Please…”

But Geralt wasn’t ready. Not yet. He wanted _more_ . His drive for _everything_ his bard could offer filled him with an inspiration he felt certain any incubus would admire - or at the very least greatly appreciate. Feeling Jaskier’s dick thicken against his own, Geralt suddenly pulled himself out of Jaskier’s clutch and dove his head beneath the water.

“Geralt?!” Jaskier shouted, his being pounding with equal amounts surprise and exhilaration. “What—?!”

Moist warmth collapsed around him. All three fingers plunged down to the knuckle. His muscles grew taut with spasming pleasure, forcing his back to arch and his hands to snatch the edges of the basin. A delighted scream ripped out of him, meanwhile the sensations built up in his loins at last burst out. He felt the insides of Geralt’s cheeks collapsing and pulling, doing everything they could to coax every drop out of him - still struggling for mental presence, he reflexively moved one hand to bury its fingers through Geralt’s hair and hold his head in place. His limbs trembled, shaking drip after decadent drip out of him until there was nothing left to give. Even as his orgasm began to subside, his body sinking back down into the bath’s settling definition, the occasional jolt still rocketed through him, summoned either by the subtle shift of Geralt’s fingers still buried in his ass or one further flick of Geralt’s tongue along a still-bulging vein.

By the time Geralt finally resurfaced, it was with a quick flip of his face, eagerly gasping for air. His throat burned from a combination of strangled breath and coats of choking cum: traces of the latter dribbled from the edges of his mouth, a sight whose illicitness made Jaskier shudder. Geralt’s eyes were fixed upon some point high above them, no doubt avoiding the full acknowledgement of his Lust-fueled and uninhibited actions, but in the contracting of his muscles and the wetness of his gulping Jaskier could tell the old witcher was still working through everything Jaskier had given him. “Geralt,” he gently murmured, pausing when Geralt’s tongue surreptitiously flicked along a portion of his lip. He hesitated, then tried to shift in the tub.

Only then did he realize he had not _yet_ been released.

The tingling delight that drifted through him sounded in a soft whimper. The next time he parted his lips, caution decorated his tones - the kind of wariness one exercised when trying not to build their hopes _too_ high. Even so, he couldn’t help but let his gaze fall, straining through the obscuring water to spy the organ he knew still thirsted for his body.

“Geralt… You’re still in me…”

That faint inquiry, tentative as it was, pulled Geralt’s eyes down upon him. For a fleeting moment, Jaskier saw the fire that still burned in his witcher’s eyes, and the faint flush still coloring his cheeks. A hint of urgency whispered about Geralt’s features, enough that Jaskier had reasonable enough assumptions about what Geralt would soon be doing with him. He felt the anticipation tighten in his gut, and posed no resistance when Geralt’s free hand grabbed his shoulder and forcefully flipped him over in the bath. “Turn around!”

Jaskier’s only protest as he flopped about in the water came as a reluctant whine for the necessary retreat of Geralt’s fingers. Geralt silenced that swiftly enough when, as soon as Jaskier fell into position, he allowed his girth to drop upon the crevice formed by Jaskier’s ass cheeks. Jaskier’s stretched gape begged for its new charge, and his lips sang an almost giddy gasp as Geralt’s hands took abrupt hold of his waist. His fingertips hung from the basin’s edge, anchoring him just high enough to keep his face above whatever water hadn’t already been sloshed out onto the floor from their antics. A victorious satisfaction rumbled through Geralt’s chest at the sight bent over before him: an unrealized dream that was coming true decades too late.

He grit his teeth, biting back the regret. _The past is the past._ One hand glided up along the slope of Jaskier’s back, feeling the other man’s every pleased tremble beneath his gentle touch. _Better late than never._ His fingers combed through Jaskier’s chocolatey locks, thickened and corded from the bathwater’s soak. _I can have him. He’s mine now._

Jaskier’s head turned just enough to cast those somehow constantly cocky hues over his shoulder. He bit his lip, and the corner of his mouth curled into an enticing smile. “Take what’s yours, Witcher.”

Geralt might have came right then and there if not for his craving to bury himself in Jaskier’s ass. Still, those words were all the permission he needed to spread his cheeks with a brutal grip of both palms and expose his waiting entrance. With that firm mount, he held himself steady, then slowly retracted his hips, the flared tip of his penis carefully tracing down the crease in Jasier’s flesh. The closer he drew, the slower he moved, loathe to miss his beloved target. At the basins’ edge, Jaskier’s knuckles had grown white from anxious clenching - he closed his eyes and forced his eager body to relax, bracing for a willing welcome.

Closer. Closer.

“Nnh!” Jaskier squeaked, a round and fleshy nub sticking against his hole. He spread his knees, doing his best to accommodate whatever widening still remained to be realized.

Geralt stilled, keeping himself precariously poised against Jaskier’s rear. His hunter’s eyes quickly surveyed Jaskier’s state, a final check for any sign of pain or dissent. Finding none, he pressed his lips together, and his fingertips dug into their plants.

“G—!” Jaskier grunted, hands bracing himself against the basin. He kept himself as still as possible while Geralt slowly, carefully eased himself forward. The pressure around Jaskier’s ass built up, his ring not _quite_ large enough, and he forced himself to take long, steadying breaths to minimize his body’s resistance to Geralt until finally, accompanied by a fresh sweep of feeling, the witcher broke through. “Aah!” his pleasure sighed out, his body trembling at the renewed, swelling fullness. A sharp pain around his sphincter won a slight wince, and with it a sudden pause, and Jaskier quickly banished his companion’s hesitation with an anxious shake of his head. “It… It’s okay…” He took a breath, his mind already beginning to swim in the fresh power Geralt’s Lust bestowed upon him. He subconsciously licked his lip, and without thought his hand moved to spread himself open, intent on exposing as much of himself for Geralt as he could manage. “Please,” he beckoned. “Keep going!”

This time, Geralt’s “Hmm” inflected a bit too similarly to a moan. That single sound betrayed the euphoric joy wrapping about his every sense, binding his focus to the lewd prize clinging to his cock. With Jaskier holding his own ass cheek aside, Geralt’s unburdened hand roamed, finding a new latch upon Jaskier’s shoulder. “J… Jaskier…” his low voice rumbled, declaring his ongoing struggle between the hypnotic drive of his desire against the care and delicacy required to keep from hurting his lover. His chest rose and fell with a heartbeat that quickened with every bit of progress. The pleasure of Jaskier’s squeeze working steadily further and further down his length, the rest of his organ basking in decadent warmth, brought stars to his eyes.

His hand tightened. Jaskier tilted his head - Geralt moved his hand higher along Jaskier’s neck. His fingertips stroked the thin cords composing that slender slope. Jaskier’s breath choked, his voice wafting like an aphrodisiac plume.

“Do it.”

“Agh!” Geralt cried, his hips at last colliding against Jaskier’s rump. The gentle collision rustled Jaskier, but he recovered well enough, his limbs instinctively correcting themselves while his head continued to drown in overwhelming pleasure. Geralt gave them both a fleeting moment to adjust, allowing Jaskier’s body to settle around its thick intruder while he basked in the almost electric connection it sent thrumming through him. By now, they’d fucked countless times, sometimes more haphazardly than planned while others played out in explosions of carnal exuberance. It was hardly the first time he’d claimed Jaskier, bent him over a ledge and had his way with the bard, but now it was… different, somehow. More than just sex, than simply beating out their passionate frustrations.

_Your Love has already turned to Lust._

Those long-ago words whispered through his memories. He shook their darker implications from his mind, but could no longer deny what Jaskier - what Jaskier’s _form_ \- had been trying to tell him.

Jaskier shuddered. Blinked. Craned his neck to look worriedly up at Geralt. “Hnn? What was that?”

Geralt dismissed him with a small, curt shake. “Nothing.” He leaned over Jaskier, keeping a firm hold of the man’s neck and letting his other hand move up to join Jaskier’s at the basin’s edge. Eager to trample over whatever sentimental observations might have slipped out, Geralt took Jaskier’s ear between his teeth for a quick nip. While Jaskier squealed his approval, he growled, “Don’t hold back on me.”

“Mmm,” Jaskier purred through his pressed smile. “You neither.”

A hungry snicker kissed Jaskier’s ear. “You sure?” With no more warning than that, he delivered a shallow but firm strike of his hips, sending a delightful jolt through Jaskier’s body.

Whatever he’d been about to say was swallowed in an ecstatic cry, his fingers subconsciously twining along Geralt’s. “Yes!” he managed to whimper in its aftermath. “I can take it. Let me take it!”

“Oh,” Geralt chuckled, drawing back his hips once more, “you will.” His hand tightened around Jaskier’s neck, using the added leverage to anchor a stronger thrust.

Again, Jaskier cried out his glee, and his lips began panting against the rippling water. “Aah! Ahh!” He circled his hips, stirring his insides with Geralt’s dick. “Don’t stop…”

Geralt was more than happy to oblige, especially with Jaskier’s contracting ass tugging him like that. The next time he pulled back, he nearly left Jaskier’s hole entirely, only to slam his full length back in at the last second. The heightened force sent Jaskier’s moans to a new pitch, and before the delirious incubus could recover Geralt was already winding into his next plunge. For now, he kept himself to a slow, deep pounding, letting the both of them savor every inch of his unyielding heft. The breaths punctuating Jaskier’s vocalizations grew shorter and shorter, until the bard was singing a consistent croon of wanton desire. At first, Geralt tried to hold back his own declarations, but inevitably he too drowned in the intoxicating drug that was his Jaskier. Even burrowed against Jaskier’s nape, his full-bodied grunting highlighted his loins’ rhythm, catching Jaskier between sound and movement alike.

But the witcher still held back his might, and Jaskier knew it. His hand left his ass, abandoning it to the wet slapping of Geralt’s hips, and instead sank its fingers through Geralt’s matted hair. “More!” he throatily commanded through Geralt’s choking. He claimed a fistful of grey-white locks, seizing a full growl from his animalistic lover. “I want you to _fuck_ me, Geralt!”

Like taking a torch to dehydrated pine, Jaskier’s words scorched the very last of Geralt’s restrained, unleashing the witcher’s full, relentless potential. Both Geralt’s hands clutched their claims of Jaskier’s body, using their anchors to pull Jaskier into his surging hips. His cock throbbed along Jaskier’s tract, drilling deeper and deeper in search of greater conquest. The water churned between them, a helpless bystander fallen victim to their fervent passions.

“Yes!” Jaskier screamed, his body aglow with their Lust’s brilliance. Stars danced across the backs of his eyes. “That’s it, Geralt! Give me everything!”

And Geralt did just that, delivering the full, pommeling drive his witcher’s strength could muster. Somewhere in the far back of his mind, the thanked the gods for Jaskier’s inhuman form - otherwise, the poor man’s rump would surely have broken down under such a rough, unbridled fucking. Set loose to wreckless abandon, Geralt humped Jaskier like a wild dog desperate to mate, the slap of his balls upon the water lessened only by their eventual, gradual tense.

“Agh.. Nngh… !” Geralt groaned, the bulging of his rod’s veins worsening with every pass through Jaskier’s grip. The bard served him too well, milked him too thoroughly: even for all his stamina, he was doomed from the moment he beckoned the demon closer. “Jaskier!” he growled, half in celebration and half in warning. “I… I can’t…!”

Jaskier tugged his hair even harder. “It’s okay!” he exclaimed, his tone alone begging for Geralt’s precious gift. “Do it!”

His hips sped. His thrusting grew shallow, focusing Jaskier’s squeezing at the base of his cock. His toes curled in the water, muscles tensing all down his legs. His mouth had long ago been left in a debaucherous hang, but now his head threw back and a triumphant bellow ripped through his throat. His hand crushed the basin’s edge as his grip suddenly harshened. At the same time, he burried himself to the hilt in Jaskier’s ass and at long last allowed his cum to burst through. Ecstacy shuddered through his gagging breath while he spilled everything he had within Jaskier, his flow of thick semen contained only by his maintained plug. Spasm after spasm coaxed a seemingly endless stream out of him, his orgasm filling Jaskier’s innards until he felt truly and thoroughly stuffed.

It seemed like an eternity, but eventually Geralt’s waves of ejaculate waned, his body relaxing against Jaskier with its fading tension. His member grew flaccid, held in place only by Jasier’s pulsing, and in turn his deed began to leak out between clenches. With a gentle smile and contented hum, Jaskier delicately maneuvered himself around a drifting Geralt, managing to keep himself to only a soft though quivering gasp when the movement plucked Geralt free.

“Mmm?” Geralt murmured, struggling against heavying eyelids. He felt a delicate hand slide into place along his cheek, guiding his face. His lips betrayed the faintest smile, comforted by the familiarity he could only barely perceive in his weariness. “I…”

Jaskier faltered, considered the gruff man beneath him, then against his better judgement shut his eyes and pressed his lips to Geralt’s grin. An immense relief swept over him when Geralt’s lips adjusted to align with his own, even going to far as to part and invite Jaskier’s tongue between his teeth. Through it all, the taste of Jaskier’s release still clung to Geralt’s tongue, and the renewed evidence of Geralt’s Lust sent fire coursing through his veins.

They parted with a shared breath. Geralt whet his tongue to repeat what he’d tried to say, but Jaskier quieted him with a gentle hush, and a light draw of his fingers through Geralt’s hair. “Rest. I imagine we’ve… announced ourselves to other patrons.”

Geralt scoffed. “Fuck ‘em.”

“Had you not so thoroughly fed me, I would,” Jaskier snickered in kind. He set a light kiss to Geralt’s prominent cheek. “I’ll affirm they’ll not bother you about it, hm?”

He barely had presence enough to nod. “Hurry back.”

Jaskier gazed upon him, his thoughts lost in a timeless sea of worries, desires… fears. Ultimately, he disclosed only one, uttered in a yearning whisper that lingered upon the air long after he collapsed into a dissipating cloud of yellow smoke.

“Of course, My Love.”

* * *

He stared through the window. Outside, the leaves were beginning to turn, taking on some of the sunrise’s golden hues. The air had begun to thin: its cool breeze brought comfort after a long and scalding summer, though it stood as a brief relief before the incoming winter. Overhead, thin layers of wispy white decorated an otherwise vibrantly blue sky, and in the forest surrounding the small cottage birds had begun to wake.

Usually, he loved vistas like these: quiet scenes that presented no corruptions of the time or place which held them. No matter how many times the world turned, no matter how it changed, these things held constant. It was the only way he could ever truly lose himself anymore, forgetting all manner of when, where, who.

But lately, heavier thoughts weighed on his mind, and the longer they lingered the tighter they gripped him.

A small, wet pop disturbed the precarious serenity, followed by a gasp for air. Gentle fingertips crept up. Coiled. Stroked the slick length. “M… My Liege… Is it not good enough…?”

Gabriel’s eyes slid down to the creature between his legs. For a fleeting moment, his impassive stare considered the wide eyes gazing up at him through a sweaty mess of short, brunette waves, then a thin slit steadily slid across his face. He allowed warmth to spill off him, bringing a hopeful shine to his companion as his hand curled its fingers under his chin. With all the care of a spider’s delicate legs, his thumb stroked the man’s cheek, and his chest swelled with the resulting flush it coaxed. “I told you not to call me that,” he purred, his every word perfectly formed as they dripped from his expert tongue.

The man’s heart raced. He could feel it through his cupped hand, and through the slight falter in the man’s anxious stroking. The man swallowed, re-wetting his throat, unable to fathom what fortune it took to grant him this very moment. “Y-Yes… Emhyr…”

A delighted rumble rustled through Gabriel’s core. He leaned his head back, still supported upon his fist, to stare down his nose as the man kneeling before him, and the hand cupping the man’s chin shifted and sank its fingers through the base of his hair at the back of his neck. “That’s better,” he murmured, gently but intently tugging the man’s face closer to his throbbing cock. He revelled in the lust-drunk shine of the man’s eyes, and the trembling of the lips tracing his illusory length, and the heated breath beating against his ancient flesh. Long before the man’s hand slid back down to his base to hold him steady, and his tongue slipped out to curl about his tip and pull it past the threshold of his lips, Gabriel felt as though his whole body sang, and it grew difficult to keep his eyes open and beholding the lewd display. He grit his teeth, refusing to miss a second of it.

“Tell me… how to serve you…” the man whispered between desperate licks and sucks. He tilted his head and drifted his lips down the side, and as his hand continued to pump in his mouth’s absence he leaned in and took one of Gabriel’s balls into his mouth for a hungry suckling.

Gabriel grunted. His grip tightened in the man’s hair. “Swallow me whole,” he commanded, knowing the throaty words would summon a surge of need.

A moan predictably edged out of the man’s full mouth before it released its prize with a wet pop. He let Gabriel move his head, pulling him back up to the tip of his length. “Yes… My pleasure!” he panted, barely able to get the words out before Gabriel’s hand shoved him down. His lips parted and his tongue beckoned Gabriel’s cock into his mouth with a hungry coil. His hands braced himself upon Gabriel’s thighs, as much so he could enjoy the feel of that firm flesh beneath his fingertips as for his own stability. Ever eager to please, he did precisely as he’d been commanded to, consuming Gabriel’s whole, wicked length in a single dive. He could feel its tender head pressing against the back of his throat, enough to make him reflexively gag, but refused to budge, forcing the gasping slop of his mouth to envelop Gabriel as long as he could stand.

And Gabriel watched it all. Like a hawk stalking a skittering mouse, his eyes remained glued upon the mortal’s desperation. Every efforted pant, every needy quiver, every lick and stroke and tug fed the warmth humming through Gabriel’s being, worsening haze dominating the air around them. Pure power crackled in the hypnotizing crimson of his eyes, his charming smile curling into a wicked smirk. His fingers clenched in the man’s hair, knowing the show of force would only serve to feed the man’s rampant fire. Gabriel tilted his head, delightedly watching as one of the mortal’s hands descended to grab and pump himself - he encouraged it with a sultry purr, its perfectly measured tones slithering about the man’s neck like a noose. “I’m not certain you’ve earned it?”

The man whimpered. His bobbing head pushed itself faster. His mouth and tongue suctioned with newfound desperation, and in his mind’s eye he could feel every muscle, vein, and turn of the flesh the needy man perceived. A low, approving chuckle fell through his lips, then at last his hand gave the man’s hair a final twist before shoving him down once more and stuffing himself into the very back of the man’s choking throat. “Ah,” he whispered, feeling each rope of his release slowly fill the man’s mouth. Through the urgent trembling of the man’s body, Gabriel could feel the tension begging to burst, and so at last when he’d finished coating the man’s mouth he slowly pulled the man’s head off his cock, a long cord of creamy white leaking from between those tired, panting lips. He brought them to his own, forcing the man to his stumbling feet even as his hand continued its fervent work, and as his devilish tongue claimed its prize he whispered between mouthfuls of reeking Lust, “Very well, then. Come.”

Like a perfectly played puppet, the man’s own ecstasy shot forth the minute he’d at last been given his freeing command. “Emhyr!” he cried, voice muffled through the cum spilling onto Gabriel’s tongue. His spare hand gripped Gabriel’s shoulder, the other delivering its last, tight strokes, and one by one his own ejaculate lanced out between them to paint Gabriel’s exposed chest. His heart raced, providing a triumphant symphony to Gabriel’s power-drunk mind, and his throat burned with the hot breath he rapidly drew through what sticky strings still clung to his gape.

Gabriel chuckled approvingly, his hand finally softening to stroke through the man’s hair, soothing the spot he’d been worrying. “Beautiful,” he whispered, swiping away those last traces of cum with swift, fleeting lick. His fingertips traced along the man’s jaw, then down the slope of his neck, as if inspecting for any slight mar or indication of misgiving. Finding none, he ended with an encouraging squeeze of the shoulder. “Why don’t I fetch us some water while you clean up?”

“What about—?”

But Gabriel was already drawing to a stand, his manner and poise somehow commanding even more strength and resolve than when he’d first presented himself at the man’s doorstep. He charmed the man with a smirk, then a small gesture of his hand to the man’s wash basin. As he made his way to the bedroom’s door, he offered only an airy, “I’ll wait for you,” then slipped silently out into the hall, paying not the slightest mind to his apparent state of disrobement.

By the time the man eventually emerged, a pint of cool, refreshing water sat upon the meager home’s sole table. True to his word, Gabriel lingered by the window, so still in his distant gazing that the man almost didn’t see him at first. Taking up his glass, he mentioned as much, but when no reply returned to his ears he drew near, concern furrowing his brow. “My L—” He caught himself right as Gabriel’s stern eyes flickered towards him, then quickly corrected, “Sorry, _Emhyr_ I mean… Something weighs on you. I’m a man of little means, but… I don’t suppose I can… Gods, what am I saying? Someone like me can’t possibly offer—”

“I am your king?”

Startled, the man blinked. “I… Y-Yes, of course!” He bit his lip, then added alongside a meaningful look, “In _all_ things…”

Gabriel’s expression remained unreadable: too distant, too… ancient. Alien, almost. Slowly, his chiseled face returned to the window, stout fingers tapping thoughtfully against the mug he wasn’t sipping. “You’re in the… _my_ … army, correct? You’re good with a sword?”

“I’d certainly like to think so,” the man eagerly replied, chest filling up with pride. Could this be his moment? His opportunity to be of some _actual_ use to his beloved? “Whatever it is, I’ll give it my best shot. If it would ease your mind… Well, I would gladly die for you, Emhyr. Better that than to live knowing I failed you.”

Gabriel’s lips curled. A contented hum rustled through his chest. His eyes gleamed, though the man could not possibly fathom the depth of their hellfire.

“I have a witcher problem.”


End file.
